Troin  the 


t. 


* 
/./L 


GOLDEN    LEAVES. 


GOLDEN     LEAVES 


FROM    THE 


AMERICAN  POETS 


COLLECTED    BY 


JOHN  W.  S.  HOWS 

i 


NEW  YORK 
JAMES    G.   GREGORY   540   BROADWAY 

M  DCCC  LX  V 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1864, 
By  JAMES  G.  GREGORY, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for 
the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


C.   A.   ALVORD,   STEREOTYPER    AND    PRINTER. 


P  BE  FAG  E. 


THIS  Selection  from  the  works  of  AMERICAN 
POETS  is  based  upon  the  same  design  I  con- 
templated in  the  companion  volume  of  "  GOLDEN 
LEAVES  FROM  THE  BRITISH  POETS,"  lately  issued. 
I  have  endeavoured  to  gather  into  one  portable  vol- 
ume those  Poems  that  have,  by  general  accepta- 
tion, become  identified  in  the  hearts  of  the  People 
as  the  choicest  and  noblest  specimens  of  American 
National  Poetry.  To  these  literal  " household  words" 
there  are  added  otlier  selections,  not  perhaps  so 
generally  familiar  to  ordinary  readers,  but  yet  pos- 
sessing sufficient  merit  to  make  them  worthy  a 
place  in  a  work  expressly  intended  as  an  exponent 
of  the  Poetic  Genius  of  the  Country.  A  few  of 
the  earliest  recorded  efforts  of  American  poetic 
composition  are  given,  as  interesting  relics  of  a  by- 
gone age — affording,  as  they  do,  graphic  pictures 
of  the  habits  and  manners  of  the  periods  they  de- 
scribe ;  and  as  marking  also  the  incipient  dawnings 
of  poetic  talent  in  this  country. 


vi  PREFACE. 

I  may  be  permitted  to  add,  without  incurring  the 
charge  of  undue  egotism,  I  trust,  that  the  prepara- 
tion of  this  work  has  been  to  me  literally  "  a  labour 
of  love."  It  seemed  to  me  a  fitting  tribute  to 
render  to  those  Poets  whose  works  had  entered  so 
largely  into  my  professional  studies  for  the  last 
thirty  years,  and  between  whom  and  the  mere  cur- 
sory reader,  and  those  of  a  yet  immature  age,  I  had 
endeavoured  faithfully  to  act  as  an  INTERPRETER, 
that  I  should,  in  the  probably  closing  effort  of  my 
literary  career,  present  a  worthy  monument  record- 
ing the  Genius  of  American  Poesy,  acceptable  to 
the  reading  Public,  and  one  that  should  do  honour 
to  the  Poets  I  have  selected  for  representation ; 
and  to  these  Gifted  Men  and  Women  I  most  re- 
spectfully dedicate  these  my  humble  labours. 

J.  W.  S.  H. 

5  COTTAGE  PLACE,  NEW  YORK,  ") 
October    ia,    1864.  / 


CONTENTS. 


ANONYMOUS.  PAGE 

New  England's  Annoyances.       "The  first  recorded   Poem 
written  in  America"  (1630) I 

ANNE  BRADSTREET. 

Contemplations  (1650) 3 

BENJAMIN  THOMSON. 

New  England's  Crisis  (1675) 6 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

Paper  (1742) 9 

JOHN  TRUMBULL. 

The  Fop  (1772) ii 

MERCY  WARREN. 

Things  necessary  to  the  Life  of  a  Woman  (1774) 17 

ANNE  ELIZA  BLEEKER. 

On  the  Death  of  her  Child  at  the  Retreat  from  Burgoyne 
(1777) 18 

PHILIP  FRENEAU. 

The  Wild  Honeysuckle  (1782) 20 

Indian  Death-Song ~ 21 


viii  CONTENTS. 

SUSANNAH  ROWSON.                                                               PAGE 
America,  Commerce,  and  Freedom  (1795)   a2 

ST.  JOHN  TUCKER. 

Days  of  my  Youth  (1800) 23 

TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 

The  Social  Visit  (1794) 24 

ELIZA  TOWNSEND. 

The  Incomprehensibility  of  GOD 26 

DAVID  HUMPHREYS. 

Western  Emigration  (1799) 28 

JOEL  BARLOW. 

The  Hasty  Pudding  (1793) 29 

JOSEPH  HOPKINSON. 

Hail  Columbia  (1798) 41 

CLEMENT  C.  MOORE. 

A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas 43 

WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 

The  Paint-King 45 

America  to  Great  Britain 52 

JOHN  PIERPONT. 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers  53 

"Passing  away" 55 

SAMUEL  WOODWORTH. 

The  Bucket  57 

RICHARD  HENRY  DANA. 

Immortality 58 

The  Little  Beach-Bird...  ..    60 


CONTENTS.  ix 

FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY.                                                            PAGE 
The  Star-spangled  Banner 62 

JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE. 

Sweet  Home 6-: 


JAMES  A.  HILLHOUSE. 

The  Last  Evening  before  Eternity 64 

ALEXANDER  H.  EVERETT. 

The  Young  American  65 

SEBA  SMITH. 

The  Burning  Ship  at  Sea 67 

CHARLES  SPRAGUE. 

Shakspeare  Ode 69 

The  Family  Meeting 75 

Art  77 

LYDIA  HUNTLEY  SIGOURNEY. 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers 79 

Niagara 8 1 

The  Coral-Insect  82, 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

Thanatopsis 84 

Forest  Hymn 86 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers 90 

The  Antiquity  of  Freedom 92 

To  a  Waterfowl 94 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian 95 

The  Planting  of  the  Apple-Tree 96 

EDWARD  EVERETT. 

Alaric  the  Visigoth 99 


x  CONTENTS. 

FRANCES  H.  GREEN.  PAGE 

The  Chickadee's  Song loa 

HENRY  R.  SCHOOLCRAFT. 

The  Birchen  Canoe 104 

Geehale  :   an  Indian  Lament 106 

CARLOS  WILCOX. 

Sunset  in  September 107 

EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 

Cheerfulness 109 

HENRY  WARE,  JR. 

Seasons  of  Prayer Hi 

MARIA  BROOKS. 

To  the  River  St.  Lawrence 113 

JOHN  NEAL. 

Music  of  the  Night 117 

On   seeing   Cavalry   passing   through   a    Gorge,  at   Sunset 
(from  "Battle  of  Niagara") 119 

JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL. 

The  Graves  of  the  Patriots  120 

To  the  Eagle 121 

New  England 124 

The  Coral-Grove 126 

It  is  great  for  our  Country  to  die 127 

HANNAH  F.  GOULD. 

The  Snow-Flake  128 

JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 

The  American  Flag 130 

The  Culprit  Fay 133 


CONTENTS.  xi 

FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK.  PAGE 

Marco  Bozzaris 155 

Connecticut 159 

The  World  is  bright  before  thee i6z 

SARAH  JANE  HALE. 

The  Light  of  Home 163 

The  Two  Maidens 164 

JOHN  G.  C.  BRAINARD. 

The  Deep 165 

The  Indian  Summer 166 

The  Sea-Bird's  Song 167 

JAMES  WALLIS  EASTBURN. 

To  Pneuma 168 

The  Restoration  of  Israel 169 

ROBERT  C.  SANDS. 

Weehawken 170 

The  Green  Isle  of  Lovers 172 

WILLIAM  B.  O.  PEABODY. 

Hymn  of  Nature 173 

SUMNER  LINCOLN  FAIRFIELD. 

An  Evening  Song  of  Piedmont 175 

GRENVILLE  M  ELLEN. 

On  seeing  an  Eagle  pass  near  me  in  Autumn  Twilight 177 

The  True  Glory  of  America 179 

S.  MARGARET  FULLER. 

Ganymede  to  his  Eagle 181 

EMILY  JUDSON. 

The  Weaver 185 


xn  CONTENTS. 

RUFUS   DAWES.  PAGE 

The  Spirit  of  Beauty 188 

Sunrise  from  Mount  Washington 189 

BISHOP  GEORGE  W.  DOANE. 

"What  is  that,  Mother?" 191 

A  Cherub  192 

MRS.  E.  C.  KINNEY. 

To  Powers's  Greek  Slave 193 

The  Woodman 194 

ELIZABETH  J.  EAMES, 

Crowning  of  Petrarch 195 


JAMES  GORDON  BROOKS. 

Greece  in  1832 198 

MARY  E.   BROOKS. 

Dream  of  Life 201 

CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 

The  Myrtle  and  Steel 203 

Sparkling  and  Bright 204 

Forest  Musings 205 

The  Origin  of  Mint  Juleps 209 

Rosalie  Clare 210 

SOPHIA  HELEN  OLIVER. 

Ministering  Spirits 211 

MARY  E.  LEE. 

The  Poets 213 

REV.  WILLIAM  CROSWELL,  D.  D. 

The  Clouds 214 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

WILLIAM   PITT  PALMER.  PAGE 

Lines  to  a  Chrysalis 216 

MARY  NOEL  MEIGS. 

The  Spells  of  Memory 218 

EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY. 

Italy 220 

REV.  GEORGE  W.  BETHUNE,  D.  D. 

Night  Study 222 

GEORGE  P.  MORRIS. 

Woodman,  spare  that  Tree 224 

The  Whip-poor-will 225 

My  Mother's  Bible 227 

The  West 228 

LYDIA  JANE  PIERSON. 

The  Wild-wood  Home 230 

ALBERT  G.   GREENE. 

The  Baron's  Last  Banquet 231 

Old  Grimes 234 

LUCY  HOOPER. 

Legends  of  Flowers 236 

JAMES  NACK. 

Spring  is  coming 238 

WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS. 

The  Lost  Pleiad 239 

The  Edge  of  the  Swamp 241 

ANN  S.  STEPHENS. 

Dropping  Leaves 243 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE.  PAGE 

The  Raven 245 

Annabel  Lee 251 

The  Bells 253 

SARAH  HELEN  WHITMAN. 

The  Sleeping  Beauty :   "  A  Tale  of  Forests  and  Enchant- 
ments drear" 257 

JONATHAN  LAWRENCE. 

Look  aloft 266 

GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 

Sabbath  Evening 267 

The  Dead  Mariner 268 

FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 

The  Cocoa-nut  Tree 270 

ELIZABETH  OAKES-SMITH. 

The  Brook 272 

ANNA  CORA  MOWATT  (RITCHIE). 

Time 275 

On  a  Lock  of  my  Mother's  Hair 276 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

The  Arsenal  at  Springfield 277 

A  Psalm  of  Life 279 

Footsteps  of  Angels 280 

Excelsior 282 

Paul  Revere's  Ride 284 

Rain  in  Summer 288 

The  Village  Blacksmith 291 

The  Skeleton  in  Armour 293 


CONTENTS.  xv 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE.  PAGI 

Woman 299 

The  Dead  Christ 300 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

Act  for  Truth 302 

The  Heritage 304 

To  the  Dandelion 306 

An  Incident  in  a  Railroad  Car 308 

GEORGE  LUNT. 

. 

The  Lyre  and  Sword 311 

AMELIA  B.  WELBY. 

The  Old  Maid 312 

To  a  Sea-Shell 314 

NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS. 

The  Dying  Alchemist 316 

The  Leper 320 

Hagar  in  the  Wilderness 325 

Parrhasius 330 

ANNE  C.  LYNCH  (MADAME  BOTTA). 

The  Battle  of  Life 336 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

Maud  Muller 339 

The  Merrimack 344 

Palestine 347 

The  Brother  of  Mercy 349 

ALFRED  B.  STREET. 

A  Forest  Walk...  352 

The  Gray  Forest-Eagle 354 


xvi  CONTENTS. 

REV.  ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXE,  D.  D.  PAGE 

The  Chimes  of  England 359 

Old  Churches 361 

PARK  BENJAMIN. 

Gold 363 

The  Stormy  Petrel 364 

WILLIS   GAYLORD  CLARK. 

A  Lament 365 

HENRY  THEODORE  TUCKERMAN. 

The  Apollo  Belvidere 367 

To  an  Elm 372 

Newport  Beach 374 

WILLIAM  D.  GALLAGHER. 

Fifty  Years  ago 378 

The  Mothers  of  the  West ;....^...  381 

ISAAC    McCLELLAN. 

New  England's  Dead  382 

EPES  SARGENT. 

The  Missing  Ship 384 

PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE. 

Life  in  the  Autumn  Woods 386 

JOHN  G.   SAXE. 

The  Proud  Miss  MacBride.      A  Legend  of  Gotham 389 

Phaethon,  or  the  Amateur  Coachman 399 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

The  Poet 403 

Each  and  All 405 

To  the  Humble-Bee 407 

Good-by,  Proud  World!  409 


CONTENTS.  xvii 

REV.  RALPH   HOYT.  PAGE 

The  World  for  Sale 410 

WILLIAM  Ross  WALLACE. 

The  Liberty-Bell  413 

The  Sword  of  Bunker  Hill 415 

ALICE  CAREY. 

Visions  of  Light 416 

Harvest-Time 418 

THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS. 

Hudson  River 420 

On  a  Lady  singing 423 

PHOEBE  CAREY. 

The  Christian  Woman 424 

* 
THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 

The  Stranger  on  the  Sill  426 

Passing  the  Icebergs 427 

The  Sea-King 430 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

On  lending  a  Punch-Bowl 431 

The  Old  Constitution 435 

The  Music-Grinders 436 

The  Living  Temple 438 

JAMES  T.  FIELDS. 

Sleighing-Song 440 

The  Alpine  Cross 441 

Last  Wishes  of  a  Child 442 

Dirge  for  a  Young  Girl 443 

Ballad  of  the  Tempest 444 


xviii  CONTENTS. 

GEORGE  H.  BOKER.  TAGS. 

A  Ballad  of  Sir  John  Franklin 445 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier.     In  Memory  of  General  Philip  Kear- 
ney   45° 

RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 

Hymn  to  the  Beautiful 451 

William  Shakspeare.      A  Tercentenary  Ode 455 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

The  Ballad  of  Babie  Bell 459 

A  Ballad  of  Nantucket 462 

Kathie  Morris.      An  Old  Man's  Poem 464 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

Bedouin  Song 468 

The  Arab  to  the  Palm 469 

Kubleh  ;   a  Story  of  the  Assyrian  Desert 471 

"Moan,  ye  Wild  Winds" .1*.  476 

The  Bison-Track 477 

LUCRETIA  M.  DAVIDSON. 

A  Prophecy 479 

Auction  Extraordinary 480 

MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

To  her  Sister  Lucretia 481 

To  her  Mother.      Written  a  few  Days  before  her  Death ....  482 

WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER. 

The  New  Argonauts 483 

Charlemagne  and  the  Hermit 486 

WILLIAM  WINTER. 

Orgia 489 

Beside  the  Sea 491 

After  All 492 


CONTENTS.  xix 

JOHN  ESTEN  COOKE.  PAGE 

May 493 

Extracts  from  Stanzas 494 

ELIZABETH  ELLETT. 

The  Sea-Kings 499 

J.  T.  TROWBRIDGE. 

The  Vagabonds  .....' 500 

J.  G.  HOLLAND. 

The  Old  Story  of  Bluebeard.     (From  "Bitter-Sweet") 504 

EDMUND  B.  STEDMAN. 

The  Strawberry-Pickers.    (From  "Alice  of  Monmouth")...    509 

ANONYMOUS. 

The  Big  Shoe.   (From  "  Mother  Goose  for  Grown  Folks")..   513 
Jack  Horner 516 

EDITH  MAY. 

The  Colouring  of  Happiness 518 

Summer 519 

FRANK  W.  BALLARD. 

Little  May 521 

The  Prairie  Grave 522 

HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 

"Only  a  Year" 523 

ANNA  PEYRE  DINNIES. 

To  my  Husband's  First  Gray  Hair...  5*5 


xx  CONTENTS. 

ROSE  TERRY.  PAGE 

The  Fishing-Song 527 

Reve  du  Midi 528 

FRANK  LEE  BENEDICT. 

A  Picture.     (From  "  The  Shadow-Worshipper") 529 

In  Memoriam 530 


GOLDEN    LEAVES. 


NEW  ENGLANDS   ANNOYANCES. 

"THE    FIRST    RECORDED    PoEM    WRITTEN    IN    AMERICA." 


New  England's  annoyances,  you  that  would  know  them, 
Pray  ponder  these  verses,  which  briefly  do  show  them. 

^  I  ^HE  place  where  we  live  is  a  wilderness  wood. 
•*•    Where  grass  is  much  wanting  that's  fruitful  and  good 
Our  mountains  and  hills  and  our  valleys  below 
Being  commonly  covered  with  ice  and  with  snow  : 
And  when  the  northwest  wind  with  violence  blows, 
Then  every  man  pulls  his  cap  over  his  nose  : 
But  if  any's  so  hardy  and  will  it  withstand, 
He  forfeits  a  finger,  a  foot,  or  a  hand. 

But  when  the  spring  opens,  we  then  take  the  hoe, 
And.  make  the  ground  ready  to  plant  and  to  sow  ; 
Our  corn  being  planted  and  seed  being  sown, 
The  worms  destroy  much  before  it  is  grown  ; 
And  when  it  is  growing  some  spoil  there  is  made 
By  birds  and  by  squirrels  that  pluck  up  the  blade  ; 
And  when  it  is  come  to  full  corn  in  the  ear, 
It  is  often  destroyed  by  raccoon  and  by  deer. 


GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

And  now  do  our  garments  begin  to  grow  thin, 

And  wool  is  much  wanted  to  card  and  to  spin ; 

If  we  get  a  garment  to  cover  without, 

Our  other  in-garments  are  clout  upon  clout : 

Our  clothes  we  brought  with  us  are  apt  to  be  torn, 

They  need  to  be  clouted  soon  after  they're  worn ; 

But  clouting  our  garments  they  hinder  us  nothing, 

Clouts  double  are  warmer  than  single  whole  clothing. 

If  fresh  meat  be  wanting,  to  fill  up  our  dish, 

We  have  carrots  and  pumpkins  and  turnips  and  fish : 

And  is  there  a  mind  for  a  delicate  dish, 

We  repair  to  the  clam-banks,  and  there  we  catch  fish. 

'Stead  of  pottage  and  puddings  and  custards  and  pies, 

Our  pumpkins  and  parsnips  are  common  supplies : 

We  have  pumpkins  at  morning  and  pumpkins  at  noon ; 

If  it  was  not  for  pumpkins  we  should  be  undone. 

If  barley  be  wanting  to  make  into  malt, 
We  must  be  contented  and  think  it  no  fault ; 
For  we  can  make  liquor  to  sweeten  our  lips 
Of  pumpkins  and  parsnips  and  walnut-tree  chips. 
%          *          x          %          #          %         *          % 

Now  while  some  are  going  let  others  be  coming, 
For  while  liquor's  boiling  it  must  have  a  scumming; 
But  I  will  not  blame  them,  for  birds  of  a  feather, 
By  seeking  their  fellows,  are  flocking  together. 
But  you  whom  the  LORD  intends  hither  to  bring, 
Forsake  not  the  honey  for  fear  of  the  sting ; 
But  bring  both  a  quiet  and  contented  mind, 
And  all  needful  blessings  you  surely  will  find. 


ANNE   BRAD  STREET. 


Brabetet. 

CONTEMPLATIONS. 

(1650.) 

T  TNDER  the  cooling  shadow  of  a  stately  elm, 
^      Close  sat  I  by  a  goodly  river's  side, 
Where  gliding  streams  the  rocks  did  overwhelm  ; 

A  lonely  place,  with  pleasures  dignified. 
I,  once  that  loved  the  shady  woods  so  well, 
Now  thought  the  rivers  did  the  trees  excel, 
And  if  the  sun  would  ever  shine,  there  would  I  dwell. 

While  on  the  stealing  stream  I  fixed  mine  eye, 
Which  to  the  longed-for  ocean  held  its  course, 

I  marked  nor  crooks  nor  rubs  that  there  did  lie, 
Could  hinder  aught,  but  still  augment  its  force. 

"  O  happy  flood,"  quoth  I,  "  that  holdst  thy  race 

Till  thou  arrive  at  thy  beloved  place, 
Nor  is  it  rocks  or  shoals  that  can  obstruct  thy  pace. 

"  Nor  is't  enough  that  thou  alone  may'st  slide, 
But  hundred  brooks  in  thy  clear  waves  do  meet : 

So  hand  in  hand  along  with  thee  they  glide 

To  Thetis'  house,  where  all  embrace  and  greet. 

Thou  emblem  true  of  what  I  count  the  best — 

O  could  I  leave  my  rivulets  to  rest ! 
So  may  we  press  to  that  vast  mansion  ever  blest. 

"  Ye  fish  which  in  this  liquid  region  'bide, 
That  for  each  season  have  your  habitation, 

Now  salt,  now  fresh,  when  you  think  best  to  glide, 
To  unknown  coasts  to  give  a  visitation, 


4  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

In  lakes  and  ponds  you  leave  your  numerous  fry  : 
So  Nature  taught,  and  yet  you  know  not  why — 
You  wat'ry  folk  that  know  not  your  felicity  !" 

Look  how  the  wantons  frisk  to  taste  the  air, 

Then  to  the  colder  bottom  straight  they  dive, 
Eftsoons  to  Neptune's  glassy  hall  repair 

To  see  what  trade  the  great  ones  there  do  drive, 
Who  forage  o'er  the  spacious  sea-green  field, 
And  take  their  trembling  prey  before  it  yield, 
Whose   armour   is   their  scales,  their  spreading  fins  their 
shield. 

While  musing  thus  with  contemplation  fed, 
And  thousand  fancies  buzzing  in  my  brain, 

The  sweet-tongued  Philomel  perched  o'er  my  head, 
And  chanted  forth  a  most  melodious  strain, 

Which  rapt  me  so  with  wonder  and  delight, 

I  judged  my  hearing  better  than  my  sight, 
And  wished  me  wings  with  her  a  while  to  take  my  flight. 

"  O  merry  bird,"  said  I,  "  that  fears  no  snares ; 

That  neither  toils  nor  hoards  up  in  thy  barn  ; 
Feels  no  sad  thoughts,  nor  'cruciating  cares 

To  gain  more  good,  or  shun  what  might  thee  harm  : 
Thy  clothes  ne'er  wear,  thy  meat  is  everywhere, 
Thy  bed  a  bough,  thy  drink  the  water  clear, 
Reminds  not  what  is  past,  nor  what's  to  come  dost  fear. 

"  The  dawning  morn  with  songs  thou  dost  prevent 
Sets  hundred  notes  unto  thy  feathered  crew ; 

So  each  one  tunes  his  pretty  instrument, 
And  warbling  out  the  old,  begins  anew, 


ANNE  BRAD  STREET.  5 

And  thus  they  pass  their  youth  in  summer  season, 
Then  follow  thee  into  a  better  region, 
Where  winter's  never  felt  by  that  sweet  airy  legion." 

Man's  at  the  best  a  creature  frail  and  vain, 

In  knowledge  ignorant,  in  strength  but  weak ; 
Subject  to  sorrows,  losses,  sickness,  pain, 

Each  storm  his  state,  his  mind,  his  body  break  : 
From  some  of  these  he  never  finds  cessation, 
But  day  or  night,  within,  without,  vexation, 
Troubles   from   foes,    from    friends,    from    dearest,    near'st 
relations. 

And  yet  this  sinful  creature,  frail  and  vain, 

This  lump  of  wretchedness,  of  sin  and  sorrow, 

This  weather-beaten  vessel  racked  with  pain, 
Joys  not  in  hope  of  an  eternal  morrow ; 

Nor  all  his  losses,  crosses,  and  vexation, 

In  weight,  in  frequency,  and  long  duration, 
Can  make  him  deeply  groan  for  that  divine  translation. 

The  mariner  that  on  smooth  waves  doth  glide, 
Sings  merrily,  and  steers  his  bark  with  ease, 
As  if  he  had  command  of  wind  and  tide, 

And  were  become  great  master  of  the  seas ; 
But  suddenly  a  storm  spoils  all  the"  sport, 
And  makes  him  long  for  a  more  quiet  port, 
Which  'gainst  all  adverse  winds  may  serve  for  fort. 

So  he  that  saileth  in  this  world  of  pleasure, 
Feeding  on  sweets,  that  never  bit  of  the  sour, 

That's  full  of  friends,  of  honour,  and  of  treasure — 
Fond  fool !  he  takes  this  earth  e'en  for  heaven's  bower. 


6  GOLDEN  LEA  VE  S. 

But  sad  affliction  comes,  and  makes  him  see 
Here's  neither  honour,  wealth,  nor  safety : 
Only  above  is  found  all  with  security. 

O  Time,  the  fatal  wrack  of  mortal  things, 
That  draws  Oblivion's  curtains  over  kings — 
Their  sumptuous  monuments  men  know  them  not, 
Their  names  without  a  record  are  forgot, 
Their  parts,  their  ports,  their  pomps,  all  laid  i'  the  dust- 
Nor  wit,  nor  gold,  nor  buildings,  'scape  Time's  rust ; 
But  he  whose  name  is  graved  in  the  white  stone, 
Shall  last  and  shine  when  all  of  these  are  gone  ! 


Benjamin  <£I)omson. 

NEW    ENGLAND'S    CRISIS. 

(1675-) 

'  I  ^HE  times  wherein  old  Pompion  was  a  saint, 

When  men  fared  hardly,  yet  without  complaint, 
On  vilest  cates  :   the  dainty  Indian-maize 
Was  eat  with  clamp-shells  out  of  wooden  trayes, 
Under  thatched  huts,  without  the  cry  of  rent, 
And  the  best  sawce  to  every  dish,  content. 
When  flesh  was  food  and  hairy  skins  made  coats, 
And  men  as  well  as  birds  had  chirping  notes ; 
When  Cimnels  were  accounted  noble  blood, 
Among  the  tribes  of  common  herbage  food, 
Of  Ceres'  bounty  formed  was  many  a  knack, 
Enough  to  fill  poor  Robin's  Almanack. 


THOMSON. 

These  golden  times  (too  fortunate  to  hold) 
Were  quickly  sin'd  away  for  love  of  gold. 
'Twas  then  among  the  bushes,  not  the  street, 
If  one  in  place  did  an  inferior  meet, 
"  Good-morrow,  brother,  is  there  aught  you  want  ? 
Take  freely  of  me,  what  I  have  you  ha'nt." 
Plain  Tom  and  Dick  would  pass  as  current  now, 
As  ever  since,  "  Your  servant,  Sir,"  and  bow. 
Deep-skirted  doublets,  puritanick  capes, 
Which  now  would  render  men  like  upright  apes, 
Were  comelier  wear,  our  wiser  fathers  thought, 
Than  the  last  fashions  from  all  Europe  brought. 
'Twas  in  those  dayes  an  honest  grace  would  hold, 
Till  an  hot  pudding  grew  at  heart  a  cold, 
And  men  had  better  stomachs  at  religion, 
Than  I  to  capon,  turkey-cock,  or  pigeon  j 
When  honest  sisters  met  to  pray,  not  prate, 
About  their  own  and  not  their  neighbour's  state. 
During  Plain  Dealing's  reign,  that  worthy  stud 
Of  the  ancient  planters'  race  before  the  flood, 
Then  times  were  good,  merchants  cared  not  a  rush 
For  other  fare  than  jonakin  and  mush. 
Although  men  fared  and  lodged  very  hard, 
Yet  innocence  was  better  than  a  guard. 
'Twas  long  before  spiders  and  worms  had  drawn 
Their  dingy  webs,  or  hid  with  cheating  lawne 
New  England's  beautys,  which  still  seemed  to  me 
Illustrious  in  their  own  simplicity. 
'Twas  ere  the  neighbouring  Virgin-Land  had  broke 
The  hogsheads  of  her  worse  than  hellish  smoak. 
'Twas  ere  the  Islands  sent  their  presents  in, 
Which  but  to  use  was  counted  next  to  sin. 


8  G  OLDEN   LEAVES. 

'Twas  ere  a  barge  had  made  so  rich  a  fraight 

As  chocolate,  dust-gold,  and  bitts  of  eight ; 

Ere  wines  from  France,  and  Muscovadoe  too, 

Without  the  which  the  drink  will  scarsely  doe; 

From  western  isles  ere  fruits  and  delicasies 

Did  rot  maids'  teeth  and  spoil  their  handsome  races. 

Or  ere  these  times  did  chance,  the  noise  of  war 

Was  from  our  towns  and  hearts  removed  far. 

No  bugbear  comets  in  the  chrystal  air 

Did  drive  our  Christian  planters  to  despair. 

No  sooner  pagan  malice  peeped  forth 

But  valour  snib'd  it.      Then  were  men  of  worth, 

Who  by  their  prayers  slew  thousands ;  angel-like, 

Their  weapons  are  unseen  with  which  they  strike. 

Then  had  the  churches  rest ;  as  yet  the  coales 

Were  covered  up  in  most  contentious  souls : 

Freeness  in  judgment,  union  in  affection, 

Dear  love,  sound  truth,  they  were  our  grand  protection. 

Then  were  the  times  in  which  our  councells  sate, 

These  gave  prognosticks  of  our  future  fate. 

If  these  be  longer  lived  our  hopes  increase, 

These  warrs  will  usher  in  a  longer  peace. — 

But  if  New  England's  love  die  in  its  youth, 

The  grave  will  open  next  for  blessed  truth. 

This  theame  is  out  of  date,  the  peacefull  hours 

When  castles  needed  not,  but  pleasant  bowers. 

Not  ink,  but  bloud  and  tears  now  serve  the  turn 

To  draw  the  figure  of  New  England's  urae. 

New  England's  hour  of  passion  is  at  hand ; 

No  power  except  divine  can  it  withstand. 

Scarce  hath  her  glass  of  fifty  years  run  out, 

But  her  old  prosperous  steeds  turn  heads  about, 


FRANKLIN. 

Tracking  themselves  back  to  their  poor  beginnings, 
To  fear  and  fare  upon  their  fruits  of  sinnings. 
So  that  the  mirrour  of  the  Christian  world 
Lyes  burnt  to  heaps  in  part,  her  streamers  furled. 
Grief  sighs,  joyes  flee,  and  dismal  fears  surprize 
Not  dastard  spirits  only,  but  the  wise. 
Thus  have  the  fairest  hopes  deceived  the  eye 
Of  the  big-swoln  expectant  standing  by  : 
Thus  the  proud  ship,  after  a  little  turn, 
Sinks  into  Neptune's  arms  to  find  its  urne ; 
Thus  hath  the  heir  to  many  thousands  born 
Been  in  an  instant  from  the  mother  torn : 
Fven  thus  thine  infant  cheeks  begin  to  pale, 
And  thy  supporters  through  great  losses  fail. 
This  is  the  Prologue  to  thy  future  woe, 
The  Epilogue  no  mortal  yet  can  know. 


Senjaiuin  .franklin, 

PAPER. 


OOME  wit  of  old  —  such  wits  of  old  there  were  — 
^   Whose  hints  showed  meaning,  whose  allusions  care, 
By  one  brave  stroke  to  mark  all  human  kind, 
Called  clear  blank  paper  every  infant  mind, 
Where  still,  as  opening  Sense  her  dictates  wrote, 
Fair  Virtue  put  a  seal,  or  Vice  a  blot. 

The  thought  was  happy,  pertinent,  and  true  ; 
Methinks  a  genius  might  the  plan  pursue. 


10  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

I — can  you  pardon  my  presumption  ? — I, 
No  wit,  no  genius,  yet  for  once  will  try. 

Various  the  papers  various  wants  produce — 
The  wants  of  fashion,  elegance,  and  use ; 
Men  are  as  various ;  and,  if  right  I  scan, 
Each  sort  of  paper,  represents  some  man. 

Pray,  note  the  fop— half  powder  and  half  lace — 
Nice  as  a  bandbox  were  his  dwelling-place  ; 
He's  the  gilt  paper,  which  apart  you  store, 
And  lock  from  vulgar  hands  in  the  scrutoire. 

Mechanics,  servants,  farmers,  and  so  forth, 
Are  copy  paper,  of  inferior  worth ; 
Less  prized,  more  useful,  for  your  desk  decreed, 
Free  to  all  pens,  and  prompt  at  every  need. 

The  wretch  whom  Avarice  bids  to  pinch  and  spare, 
Starve,  cheat,  and  pilfer,  to  enrich  an  heir, 
Is  coarse  brown  paper ;   such  as  peddlers  choose 
To  wrap  up  wares,  which  better  men  will  use. 

Take  next  the  miser's  contrast,  who  destroys 
Health,  fame,  and  fortune,  in  a  round  of  joys. 
Will  any  paper  match  him  ?     Yes,  throughout, 
He's  a  true  sinking  paper,  past  all  doubt. 

The  retail  politician's  anxious  thought 

Deems  this  side  always  right,  and  that  stark  naught ; 

He  foams  with  censure — with  applause  he  raves — 

A  dupe  to  rumours,  and  a  tool  of  knaves  : 

He'll  want  no  type  his  weakness  to  proclaim, 

While  such  a  thing  as  fools-cap  has  a  name. 


T  RUM  BULL.  \\ 

The  hasty  gentleman  whose  blood  runs  high, 
Who  picks  a  quarrel  if  you  step  awry, 
Who  can't  a  jest,  or  hint,  or  look  endure  : 
What  is  he  ?     What  ?  touch-paper,  to  be  sure. 

What  are  the  poets,  take  them  as  they  fall, 
Good,  bad,  rich,  poor,  much  read,  not  read  at  all  ? 
Them  and  their  works  in  the  same  class  you'll  find ; 
They  are  the  mere  waste  paper  of  mankind. 

Observe  the  maiden,  innocently  sweet, 
She's  fair  white  paper,  an  unsullied  sheet, 
On  which  the  happy  man,  whom  Fate  ordains, 
May  write  his  name,  and  take  her  for  his  pains. 

One  instance  more,  and  only  one,  I'll  bring; 

JTis  the  great  man,  who  scorns  a  little  thing — 

Whose  thoughts,  whose  deeds,  whose  maxims  are  his  own, 

Formed  on  the  feelings  of  his  heart  alone : 

True,  genuine  royal  paper  is  his  breast ; 

Of  all  the  kinds  most  precious,  purest,  best. 


lol)n  ffirnmbull. 

THE     FOP. 

(1772.) 

T  TOW  blest  the  brainless  fop,  whose  praise 
•*"*•   Is  doomed  to  grace  these  happy  days, 
When  well-bred  vice  can  genius  teach, 
And  fame  is  placed  in  folly's  reach ; 


12  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Impertinence  all  tastes  can  hit, 
And  every  rascal  is  a  wit. 
The  lowest  dunce,  without  despairing, 
May  learn  the  true  sublime  of  swearing ; 
Learn  the  nice  art  of  jests  obscene, 
While  ladies  wonder  what  they  mean ; 
The  heroism  of  brazen  lungs, 
The  rhetoric  of  eternal  tongues  ; 
While  whim  usurps  the  name  of  spirit, 
And  impudence  takes  place  of  merit, 
And  every  moneyed  clown  and  dunce 
Commences  gentleman  at  once. 

For  now,  by  easy  rules  of  trade, 
Mechanic  gentlemen  are  made  ! 
From  handicrafts  of  fashion  born  ; 
Those  very  arts  so  much  their  scorn. 
To  tailors  half  themselves  they  owe, 
Who  make  the  clothes  that  make  the  beau. 

Lo  !  from  the  seats  where,  fops  to  bless, 
Learned  artists  fix  the  forms  of  dress, 
And  sit  in  consultation  grave 
On  folded  skirt,  or  straitened  sleeve, 
The  coxcomb  trips  with  sprightly  haste, 
In  all  the  flush  of  modern  taste; 
Oft  turning,  if  the  day  be  fair, 
To  view  his  shadow's  graceful  air; 
Well  pleased,  with  eager  eye  runs  o'er 
The  laced  suit  glittering  gay  before ; 
The  ruffle,  where  from  opened  vest 
The  rubied  brooch  adorns  the  breast ; 
The  coat,  with  lengthening  waist  behind, 
Whose  short  skirts  dangle  in  the  wind  ; 


TRUUBULL.  13 

The  modish  hat,  whose  breadth  contains 
The  measure  of  its  owner's  brains ; 
The  stockings  gay,  with  various  hues ; 
The  little  toe-encircling  shoes ; 
The  cane,  on  whose  carved  top  is  shown 
A  head,  just  emblem  of  his  own ; 
While,  wrapped  in  self,  with  lofty  stride, 
His  little  heart  elate  with  pride, 
He  struts  in  all  the  joys  of  show 
That  tailors  give,  or  beaux  can  know. 

And  who  for  beauty  need  repine, 
That's  sold  at  every  barber's  sign ; 
Nor  lies  in  features  or  complexion, 
But  curls  disposed  in  meet  direction. 
With  strong  pomatum's  grateful  odor, 
And  quantum  sufficit  of  powder  ? 
These  charms  can  shed  a  sprightly  grace 
O'er  the  dull  eye  and  clumsy  face ; 
While  the  trim  dancing-master's  art 
Shall  gestures,  trips,  and  bows  impart — 
Give  the  gay  piece  its  final  touches, 
And  lend  those  airs  would  lure  a  duchess. 

Thus  shines  the  form,  nor  aught  behind, 
The  gifts  that  deck  the  coxcomb's  mind  ; 
Then  hear  the  daring  muse  disclose 
The  sense  and  piety  of  beaux. 

To  grace  his  speech,  let  France  bestow 
A  set  of  compliments  for  show. 
Land  of  politeness  !   that  affords 
The  treasure  of  new-fangled  words, 
And  endless  quantities  disburses 
Of  bows  and  compliments  and  curses  ; 


GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

The  soft  address,  with  airs  so  sweet, 
That  cringes  at  the  ladies'  feet ; 
The  pert,  vivacious,  play-house  style, 
That  wakes  the  gay  assembly's  smile ; 
Jests  that  his  brother-beaux  may  hit, 
And  pass  with  young  coquettes  for  wit, 
And  prized  by  fops  of  true  discerning, 
Outface  the  pedantry  of  learning. 
Yet  learning  too  shall  lend  its  aid 
To  fill  the  coxcomb's  spongy  head ; 
And  studious  oft  he  shall  peruse 
The  labours  of  the  modern  muse. 
From  endless  loads  of  novels  gain 
Soft,  simpering  tales  of  amorous  pain, 
With  double  meanings,  neat  and  handy, 
From  Rochester  and  Tristram  Shandy.* 
The  blundering  aid  of  weak  reviews, 
That  forge  the  fetters  of  the  muse, 
Shall  give  him  airs  of  criticising 
On  faults  of  books  he  ne'er  set  eyes  on. 
The  magazines  shall  teach  the  fashion, 
And  commonplace  of  conversation, 
And  where  his  knowledge  fails,  afford 
The  aid  of  many  a  sounding  word. 

Then,  lest  religion  he  should  need, 
Of  pious  Hume  he'll  learn  his  creed, 
By  strongest  demonstration  shown, 
Evince  that  nothing  can  be  known  ; 
Take  arguments,  un vexed  by  doubt, 
On  Voltaire's  trust,  or  go  without ; 

Sterne's  Tristram  Shandy  was   then  in  the  highest  vogue. 


TRUMBULL.  15 

'Gainst  Scripture  rail  in  modern  lore, 
As  thousand  fools  have  railed  before ; 
Or  pleased  a  nicer  art  display 
To  expound  its  doctrines  all  away, 
Suit  it  to  modern  tastes  and  fashions 
By  various  notes  and  emendations ; 
The  rules  the  ten  commands  contain, 
With  new  provisos  well  explain  ; 
Prove  all  religion  was  but  fashion, 
Beneath  the  Jewish  dispensation  : 
A  ceremonial  law,  deep  hooded 
In  types  and  figures  long  exploded ; 
Its  stubborn  fetters  all  unfit 
For  these  free  times  of  gospel  light, 
This  rake's  millennium,  since  the  day 
When  Sabbaths  first  were  done  away ; 
Since  pander-conscience  holds  the  door, 
And  lewdness  is  a  vice  no  more ; 
And  shame,  the  worst  of  deadly  fiends, 
On  virtue,  as  its  squire,  attends. 
Alike  his  poignant  wit  displays 
The  darkness  of  the  former  days, 
When  men  the  paths  of  duty  sought, 
And  owned  what  revelation  taught ; 
Ere  human  reason  grew  so  bright, 
Men  could  see  all  things  by  its  light, 
And  summoned  Scripture  to  appear, 
And  stand  before  its  bar  severe, 
To  clear  its  page  from  charge  of  fiction, 
And  answer  pleas  of  contradiction ; 
Ere  miracles  were  held  in  scorn, 
Or  Bolingbroke  or  Hume  were  born. 


16  GOLDEN   LEA  VE8. 

And  now  the  fop,  with  great  energy, 
Levels  at  priestcraft  and  the  clergy, 
At  holy  cant  and  godly  prayers, 
And  bigots'  hypocritic  airs ; 
Musters  each  veteran  jest  to  aid, 
Calls  piety  the  parson's  trade  ; 
Cries  out,  "  'Tis  shame,  past  ail  abiding, 
The  world  should  still  be  so  priest-ridden  !" 
Applauds  free  thought  that  scorns  control, 
And  generous  nobleness  of  soul, 
That  acts  its  pleasure,  good  or  evil, 
And  fears  nor  deity  nor  devil. 
These  standing  topics  never  fail 
To  prompt  our  little  wits  to  rail, 
With  mimic  drollery  of  grimace, 
And  plsased  impertinence  of  face, 
Gainst  virtue  arm  their  feeble  forces, 
And  sound  the  charge  in  peals  of  curses. 

Blest  be  his  ashes  !   under  ground 
If  any  particles  be  found, 
Who,  friendly  to  the  coxcomb  race, 
First  taught  those  arts  of  commonplace, 
Those  topics  fine,  on  which  the  beau 
May  all  his  little  wits  bestow, 
Secure  the  simple  laugh  to  raise, 
And  gain  the  dunce's  palm  of  praise. 
For  where's  the  theme  that  beaux  could  hit 
With  least  similitude  of  wit, 
Did  not  religion  and  the  priest 
Supply  materials  for  the  jest ; 
The  poor  in  purse,  with  metals  viie 
For  current  coins,  the  world  beguile  ; 


MERCY  WARREN.  \J 

The  poor  in  brain,  for  genuine  wit 

Pass  off  a  viler  counterfeit ; 

While  various  thus  their  doom  appears, 

These  lose  their  souls,  and  those  their  ears ; 

The  want  of  fancy,  whim  supplies, 

And  native  humour,  mad  caprice ; 

Loud  noise  for  argument  goes  off, 

For  mirth  polite,  the  ribald's  scoff; 

For  sense,  lewd  drolleries  entertain  us, 

And  wit  is  mimicked  by  profaneness ! 


fileren  lUarrcn. 

THINGS    NECESSARY    TO    THE    LIFE    OF    A    WOMAN. 

'    (I774-) 

A  N  inventory  clear 

'*•**   Of  all  she  needs,  Lamira  offers  here ; 
Nor  does  she  fear  a  rigid  Cato's  frown, 
When  she  lays  by  the  rich  embroidered  gown, 
And  modestly  compounds  for  just  enough — 
Perhaps  some  dozens  of  mere  flighty  stuff: 
With  lawns  and  lustrings,  blond,  and  Mecklin  laces, 
Fringes  and  jewels,  fans  and  tweezer-cases ; 
Gay  cloaks  and  hats,  of  every  shape  and  size, 
Scarfs,  cardinals,  and  ribbons,  of  all  dyes ; 
With  ruffles  stamped,  and  aprons  of  tambour, 
Tippets  and  handkerchiefs  at  least  threescore ; 
With  finest  muslins  that  fair  India  boasts, 
And  the  choice  herbage  from  Chinesan  coasts, 


18  G  OLDEN   LEAVES. 

Add  feathers,  furs,  rich  satins,  and  ducapes, 
And  head-dresses  in  pyramidal  shapes ; 
Sideboards  of  plate,  and  porcelain  profuse, 
With  fifty  dittoes  that  the  ladies  use ; 
If  my  poor,  treach'rous  memory  has  missed, 

Ingenious  T 1  shall  complete  the  list. 

So  weak  Lamira,  and  her  wants  so  few, 
Who  can  refuse  ? — they're  but  the  sex's  due. 
Yet  Clara  quits  the  more  dressed  negligee, 
And  substitutes  the  careless  Polanee, 
Until  some  fair  one  from  Britannia's  court 
Some  jaunty  dress  or  newer  taste  import ; 
This  sweet  temptation  could  not  be  withstood, 
Though  for  the  purchase's  paid  her  father's  blood ; 
Though  earthquakes  rattle,  or  volcanoes  roar, 
Indulge  this  trifle,  and  she  asks  no  more  : 
Can  the  stern  patriot  Clara's  suit  deny  ? 
'Tis  Beauty  asks,  and  Reason  must  comply. 


£U}a  Blcckar. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  CHILD  AT  THE  RETREAT 
FROM  BURGOYNE. 

('777.) 
"1T7AS  it  for  this,  with  thee,  a  pleasing  load, 

I  sadly  wandered  through  the  hostile  wood — 
When  I  thought  Fortune's  spite  could  do  no  more, 
To  see  thee  perish  on  a  foreign  shore  ? 
O  my  loved  babe  !  my  treasures  left  behind 
Ne'er  sunk  a  cloud  of  grief  upon  my  mind ; 


ANNE   ELIZA    ELEEKEU.  19 

Rich  in  my  children,  on  my  arms  I  bore 
My  living  treasures  from  the  scalper's  power ; 
When  I  sat  down  to  rest,  beneath  some  shade, 
On  the  soft  grass  how  innocent  she  played, 
While  her  sweet  sister  from  the  fragrant  wild 
Collects  the  flowers  to  please  my  precious  child, 
Unconscious  of  her  danger,  laughing  roves, 
Nor  dreads  the  painted  savage  in  the  groves  ! 

Soon  as  the  spires  of  Albany  appeared, 
With  fallacies  my  rising  grief  I  cheered : 
"  Resigned  I  bear,"  said  I,  "  Heaven's  just  reproof, 
Content  to  dwell  beneath  a  stranger's  roof — 
Content  my  babes  should  eat  dependent  bread, 
Or  by  the  labour  of  my  hands  be  fed. 
What  though  my  houses,  lands,  and  goods,  are  gone, 
My  babes  remain — these  I  can  call  my  own  !" 
But  soon  my  loved  Abella  hung  her  head — 
From  her  soft  cheek  the  bright  carnation  fled  ; 
Her  smooth,  transparent  skin  too  plainly  showed 
How  fierce  through  every  vein  the  fever  glowed. 
— In  bitter  anguish  o'er  her  limbs  I  hung, 
I  wept  and  sighed,  but  sorrow  chained  my  tongue ; 
At  length  her  languid  eyes  closed  from  the  day, 
The  idol  of  my  soul  was  torn  away ; 
Her  spirit  fled,  and  left  me  ghastly  clay  ! 

Then — then  my  soul  rejected  all  relief, 
Comfort  I  wished  not,  for  I  loved  my  grief: 
"  Hear,  my  Abella,"  cried  I,  "  hear  me  mourn  ! 
For  one  short  moment,  O  my  child  !   return ; 
Let  my  complaint  detain  thee  from  the  skies, 

Though  troops  of  angels  urge  thee  on  to  rise" 

My  friends  press  round  me  with  officious  care, 


20  GOLDEN  LEA  VE  S. 

Bid  me  suppress  my  sighs,  nor  drop  a  tear ; 
Of  resignation  talked — passions  subdued — 
Of  souls  serene,  and  Christian  fortitude — 
Bade  me  be  calm,  nor  murmur  at  my  loss, 
But  unrepining  bear  each  heavy  cross. 

"  Go,"  cried  I,  raging,  "  stoic  bosoms,  go  ! 
Whose  hearts  vibrate  not  to  the  sound  of  woe ; 
Go  from  the  sweet  society  of  men, 
Seek  some  unfeeling  tiger's  savage  den, 
There,  calm,  alone,  of  resignation  preach — 
My  Christ's  examples  better  precepts  teach." 
Where  the  cold  limbs  of  gentle  Lazarus  lay, 
I  find  Him  weeping  o'er  the  humid  clay ; 
His  spirit  groaned,  while  the  beholders  said, 
With  gushing  eyes,  "  See  how  He  loved  the  dead  !" 
Yes,  'tis  my  boast  to  harbour  in  my  breast 
The  sensibilities  by  God  expressed  ; 
Nor  shall  the  mollifying  hand  of  Time, 
Which  wipes  off  common  sorrows,_cancel  mine. 


ilijj  Jrenwu. 


THE     WILD     HONEYSUCKLE. 

(1782.) 

TjVAIR  flower  that  dost  so  comely  grow, 
•*•        Hid  in  this  silent,  dull  retreat, 
Untouched  thy  honeyed  blossoms  blow, 
Unseen  thy  little  branches  greet : 

No  roving  foot  shall  crush  thee  here, 
No  busy  hand  provoke  a  tear. 


FRENEA  U.  2l 

By  Nature's  self  in  white  arrayed, 

She  bade  thee  shun  the  vulgar  eye, 
And  planted  here  the  guardian  shade, 
And  sent  soft  waters  murmuring  by ; 
Thus  quietly  thy  summer  goes — 
Thy  days  declining  to  repose. 

Smit  with  those  charms  that  must  decay, 

I  grieve  to  see  your  future  doom ; 
They  died — nor  were  those  flowers  more  gay — 
The  flowers  that  did  in  Eden  bloom  ; 
Unpitying  frosts  and  Autumn's  power 
Shall  leave  no  vestige  of  this  flower. 

From  morning  suns  and  evening  dews 

At  first  thy  little  being  came  : 
If  nothing  once,  you  nothing  lose, 
For  when  you  die  you  are  the  same ; 
The  space  between  is  but  an  hour, 
The  frail  duration  of  a  flower. 


INDIAN     DEATH -SONG. 

^  I  *HE  sun  sets  at  night,  and  the  stars  shun  the  day, 
But  glory  remains  when  their  lights  fade  away  : 
Begin,  ye  tormentors  !   your  threats  are  in  vain, 
For  the  son  of  Alknomock  can  never  complain. 

Remember  the  woods  where  in  ambush  he  lay, 
And  the  scalps  which  he  bore  from  your  nation  away  ! 
Why  do  ye  delay  ? — till  I  shrink  from  my  pain  ? 
Know  the  son  of  Alknomock  can  never  complain. 


22  G  OLDEN   LEA  VE  S 

Remember  the  arrows  he  shot  from  his  bow  ; 
Remember  your  chiefs  by  his  hatchet  laid  low  ! 
The  flame  rises  higli — you  exult  in  my  pain  ! — 
But  the  son  of  Alknomock  will  never  complain. 

I  go  to  the  land  where  my  father  is  gone ; 

His  ghost  shall  exult  in  the  fame  of  his  son. 

Death  comes  like  a  friend ;  he  relieves  me  from  pain, 

And  thy  son,  O  Alknomock  !  has  scorned  to  complain. 


Buaannal)  lloroaon. 


H 


AMERICA,    COMMERCE,    AND    FREEDOM. 

(I795-) 

'OW  blest  a  life  a  sailor  leads, 

From  clime  to  clime  still  ranging ; 
For  as  the  calm  the  storm  succeeds, 
The  scene  delights  by  changing  ! 
When  tempests  howl  along  the  main, 

Some  object  will  remind  us, 
And  cheer  with  hopes  to  meet  again 

Those  friends  we've  left  behind  us. 
Then,  under  snug  sail,  we  laugh  at  the  gale, 

And  though  landsmen  look  pale,  never  heed  'em ; 
But  toss  off  a  glass  to  a  favourite  lass, 
To  America,  commerce,  and  freedom  ! 

And  when  arrived  in  sight  of  land, 

Or  safe  in  port  rejoicing, 
Our  ship  we  moor,  our  sails  we  hand, 

Whilst  out  the  boat  is  hoisting. 


TUCKER.  23 

With  eager  haste  the  shore  we  reach, 

Our  friends  delighted  greet  us ; 
And,  tripping  lightly  o'er  the  beach, 

The  pretty  lasses  meet  us. 
When  the  full-flowing  bowl  has  enlivened  the  soul, 

To  foot  it  we  merrily  lead  'em ; 
And  each  bonny  lass  will  drink  off  a  glass 
To  America,  commerce,  and  freedom  ! 

Our  cargo  sold,  we  chink  the  share, 

And  gladly  we  receive  it ; 
And  if  we  meet  a  brother-tar 

Who  wants,  we  freely  give  it. 
No  freeborn  sailor  yet  had  store, 
But  cheerfully  would  lend  it ; 
And  when  'tis  gone,  to  sea  for  more  — 

We  earn  it  but  to  spend  it. 
Then  drink  round,  my  boys  !   'tis  the  first  of  our  joys 

To  relieve  the  distressed,  clothe  and  feed  'em  ; 
'Tis  a  task  which  we  share  with  the  brave  and  the  fair 
In  this  land  of  commerce  and  freedom  ! 


St.  jJoljn  (Euckcr. 

DAYS     OF     MY     YOUTH. 

(1800.) 

of  my  youth,  ye  have  glided  away : 
Hairs  of  my  youth,  ye  are  frosted  and  gray 
Eyes  of  my  youth,  your  keen  sight  is  no  more  : 
Cheeks  of  my  youth,  ye  are  furrowed  all  o'er : 


24  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Strength  of  my  youth,  all  your  vigour  is  gone  : 
Thoughts  of  my  youth,  your  gay  visions  are  flown. 

Days  of  my  youth,  I  wish  not  your  recall : 
Hairs  of  my  youth,  I'm  content  ye  should  fall : 
Eyes  of  my  youth,  you  much  evil  have  seen  : 
Cheeks  of  my  youth,  bathed  in  tears  you  have  been 
Thoughts  of  my  youth,  you  have  led  me  astray  : 
Strength  of  my  youth,  why  lament  your  decay  ? 

Days  of  my  age,  ye  will  shortly  be  past : 
Pains  of  my  age,  yet  awhile  you  can  last : 
Joys  of  my  age,  in  true  wisdom  delight : 
Eyes  of  my  age,  be  religion  your  light : 
Thoughts  of  my  age,  dread  ye  not  the  cold  sod  : 
Hopes  of  my  age,  be  ye  fixed  on  your  God  ! 


<Kmotl)ij  Du)ici[l)t. 

THE     SOCIAL     VISIT. 

(I794-) 

"\7~E  Muses !  dames  of  dignified  renown, 
Revered  alike  in  country  and  in  town, 
Your  bard  the  mysteries  of  a  visit  show 
(For  sure  your  ladyships  those  mysteries  know) 
What  is  it,  then,  obliging  sisters  !   say, 
The  debt  of  social  visiting  to  pay  ? 

'Tis  not  to  toil  before  the  idol  pier ; 
To  shine  the  first  in  fashion's  lunar  sphere ; 


D  WIGHT.  25 

By  sad  engagements  forced  abroad  to  roam, 

And  dread  to  find  the  expecting  fair  at  home  ! 

To  stop  at  thirty  doors  in  half  a  day, 

Drop  the  gilt  card,  and  proudly  roll  away ; 

To  alight,  and  yield  the  hand  with  nice  parade ; 

Up-stairs  to  rustle  in  the  stiff  brocade ; 

Swim  through  the  drawing-room  with  studied  air, 

Catch  the  pinked  beau,  and  shade  the  rival  fair ; 

To  sit,  to  curb,  to  toss  with  bridled  mien, 

Mince  the  scant  speech,  and  lose  a  glance  between ; 

Unfurl  the  fan,  display  the  snowy  arm, 

And  ope,  with  each  new  motion,  some  new  charm  : 

Or  sit  in  silent  solitude,  to  spy 

Each  little  failing  with  malignant  eye ; 

Or  chatter  with  incessancy  of  tongue, 

Careless  if  kind  or  cruel,  right  or  wrong ; 

To  trill  of  us  and  ours,  of  mine  and  me, 

Our  house,  our  coach,  our  friends,  our  family, 

While  all  the  excluded  circle  sit  in  pain, 

And  glance  their  cool  contempt  or  keen  disdain  : 

To  inhale  from  proud  Nanking  a  sip  of  tea, 

And  wave  a  courtesy  trim,  and  flirt  away : 

Or  waste  at  cards  peace,  temper,  health,  and  life, 

Begin  with  sullenness,  and  end  in  strife ; 

Lose  the  rich  feast  by  friendly  converse  given, 

And  backward  turn  from  happiness  and  heaven. 

It  is  in  decent  habit,  plain  and  neat, 
To  spend  a  few  choice  hours  in  converse  sweet, 
Careless  of  forms,  to  act  the  unstudied  part, 
To  mix  in  friendship,  and  to  blend  the  heart ; 
To  choose  those  happy  themes  which  all  must  feel 
The  moral  duties  and  the  household  weal, 


26  G  OLD  EN  LEAVE S. 

The  tale  of  sympathy,  the  kind  design, 

Where  rich  affections  soften  and  refine  ; 

To  amuse,  to  be  amused,  to  bless,  be  blest, 

And  tune  to  harmony  the  common  breast ; 

To  cheer  with  mild  good-humour's  sprightly  ray 

And  smooth  life's  passage  o'er  its  thorny  way ; 

To  circle  round  the  hospitable  board, 

And  taste  each  good  our  generous  climes  afford  ; 

To  court  a  quick  return  with  accents  kind, 

And  leave,  at  parting,  some  regret  behind. 


Coumsenir. 

THE    INCOMPREHENSIBILITY    OF    GOD. 

XT7HERE  art  Thou  ? — THOU  !  source  and  support  of  all 

That  is  or  seen  or  felt ;  thyself  unseen, 
Unfelt,  unknown — alas,  unknowable  ! 
I  look  abroad  among  thy  works — the  sky, 
Vast,  distant,  glorious  with  its  world  of  suns — 
Life-giving  earth,  and  ever-moving  main, 
And  speaking  winds — and  ask  if  these  are  Thee ! 
The  stars  that  twinkle  on,  the  eternal  hills, 
The  restless  tide's  outgoing  and  return, 
The  omnipresent  and  deep-breathing  air — •• 
Though  hailed  as  gods  of  old,  and  only  less, 
Are  not  the  Power  I  seek ;   are  thine,  not  Thee  ! 
I  ask  Thee  from  the  Past :  if,  in  the  years, 
Since  first  intelligence  could  search  its  source, 
Or  in  some  former  unremembered  being 


TOWN  SEND.  27 

(If  such,  perchance,  were  mine),  did  they  behold  Thee  ? 

And  next  interrogate  Futurity, 

So  fondly  tenanted  with  better  things 

Than  e'er  experience  owned — but  both  are  mute ; 

And  Past  and  Future,  vocal  on  all  else, 

So  full  of  memories  and  phantasies, 

Are  deaf  and  speechless  here  !      Fatigued,  I  turn 

From  all  vain  parley  with  the  elements, 

And  close  mine  eyes,  and  bid  the  thought  turn  inward 

From  each  material  thing  its  anxious  guest, 

If,  in  the  stillness  of  the  waiting  soul, 

He  may  vouchsafe  himself — Spirit  to  spirit ! 

O  Thou,  at  once  most  dreaded  and  desired, 

Pavilioned  still  in  darkness,  wilt  thou  hide  Thee  ? 

What  though  the  rash  request  be  fraught  with  fate, 

Nor  human  eye  may  look  on  thine  and  live  ? 

Welcome  the  penalty  !  let  that  come  now, 

Which  soon  or  late  must  come.     For  light  like  this 

Who  would  not  dare  to  die  ? 

Peace,  my  proud  aim, 

And  hush  the  wish  that  knows  not  what  it  asks. 
Await  His  will,  who  hath  appointed  this, 
With  every  other  trial.      Be  that  will 
Done  now,  as  ever.     For  thy  curious  search, 
And  unprepared  solicitude  to  gaze 
On  Him — the  Unrevealed — learn  hence,  instead, 
To  temper  highest  hope  with  humbleness. 
Pass  thy  novitiate  in  these  outer  courts, 
Till  rent  the  veil,  no  longer  separating 
The  Holiest  of  all — as  erst,  disclosing 
A  brighter  dispensation  ;  whose  results 
Ineffable,  interminable,  tend 


28  G  OLDEN  L E A  VE S. 

Even  to  the  perfecting  thyself — thy  kind — 
Till  meet  for  that  sublime  beatitude, 
By  the  firm  promise  of  a  voice  from  heaven 
Pledged  to  the  pure  in  heart ! 


WESTERN     EMIGRATION. 

('799-) 

"1T7ITH  all  that's  ours,  together  let  us  rise, 

Seek  brighter  plains,  and  more  indulgent  skies ; 
Where  fair  Ohio  rolls  his  amber  tide, 
And  Nature  blossoms  in  her  virgin  pride ; 
Where  all  that  Beauty's  hand  can  form  to  please 
Shall  crown  the  toils  of  war  with  rural  ease. 

The  shady  coverts  and  the  sunny  hills, 
The  gentle  lapse  of  ever-murmuring  rills, 
The  soft  repose  amid  the  noontide  bowers, 
The  evening  walk  among  the  blushing  flowers, 
The  fragrant  groves,  that  yield  a  sweet  perfume, 
And  vernal  glories  in  perpetual  bloom, 
Await  you  there;   and  Heaven  shall  bless  the  toil: 
Your  own  the  produce,  and  your  own  the  soil. 

There,  free  from  envy,  cankering  care,  and  strife, 
Flow  the  calm  pleasures  of  domestic  life ; 
There  mutual  friendship  soothes  each  placid  breast : 
Blest  in  themselves,  and  in  each  other  blest. 
From  house  to  house  the  social  glee  extends, 
For  friends  in  war,  in  peace  are  doubly  friends. 


BARLOW.  29 

There  cities  rise,  and  spiry  towns  increase, 
With  gilded  domes  and  every  art  of  peace. 
There  Cultivation  shall  extend  his  power, 
Rear  the  green  blade,  and  nurse  the  tender  flower ; 
Make  the  fair  villa  in  full  splendours  smile, 
And  robe  with  verdure  all  the  genial  soil. 
There  shall  rich  Commerce  court  the  favouring  gales, 
And  wondering  wilds  admire  the  passing  sails, 
Where  the  bold  ships  the  stormy  Huron  brave, 
Where  wild  Ontario  rolls  the  whitening  wave, 
Where  fair  Ohio  his  pure  current  pours, 
And  Mississippi  laves  the  extended  shores. 
And  thou  Supreme  !  whose  hand  sustains  this  ball, 
Before  whose  nod  the  nations  rise  and  fall, 
Propitious  smile,  and  shed  diviner  charms 
On  this  blest  land,  the  queen  of  arts  and  arms ; 
Make  the  great  empire  rise  on  wisdom's  plan, 
The  seat  of  bliss,  and  last  retreat  of  man. 


lod  BavlotD. 

THE     HASTY     PUDDING. 

(I793-) 
CANTO     I. 

Alps  audacious,  through  the  heavens  that  rise, 
To  cramp  the  day  and  hide  me  from  the  skies ; 
Ye  Gallic  flags,  that,  o'er  their  heights  unfurled, 
Bear  death  to  kings  and  freedom  to  the  world, 
I  sing  not  you.     A  softer  theme  I  choose, 
A  virgin  theme,  unconscious  of  the  muse, 
3 


30  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

But  fruitful,  rich,  well  suited  to  inspire 
The  purest  frenzy  of  poetic  fire. 

Despise  it  not,  ye  bards  to  terror  steeled, 
Who  hurl  your  thunders  round  the  epic  field; 
Nor  ye  who  strain  your  midnight  throats  to  sing 
Joys  that  the  vineyard  and  the  stillhouse  bring ; 
Or  on  some  distant  fair  your  notes  employ, 
And  speak  of  raptures  that  you  ne'er  enjoy. 
I  sing  the  sweets  I  know,  the  charms  I  feel, 
My  morning  incense,  and  my  evening  meal, — 
The  sweets  of  Hasty  Pudding.      Come,  dear  bowl, 
Glide  o'er  my  palate,  and  inspire  my  soul. 
The  milk  beside  thee,  smoking  from  the  kine, 
Its  substance  mingled,  married  in  with  thine, 
Shall  cool  and  temper  thy  superior  heat, 
And  save  the  pains  of  blowing  while  I  eat. 

Oh,  could  the  smooth,  the  emblematic  song 
Flow  like  thy  genial  juices  o'er  my  tongue, 
Could  those  mild  morsels  in  my  numbers  chime, 
And,  as  they  roll  in  substance,  roll  in  rhyme, 
No  more  thy  awkward,  unpoetic  name 
Should  shun  the  muse  or  prejudice  thy  fame ; 
But,  rising  grateful  to  the  accustomed  ear, 
All  bards  should  catch  it,  and  all  realms  revere ! 

Assist  me  first  with  pious  toil  to  trace 
Through  wrecks  of  Time  thy  lineage  and  thy  race ; 
Declare  what  lovely  squaw,  in  days  of  yore 
(Ere  great  Columbus  sought  thy  native  shore), 
First  gave  thee  to  the  world ;  her  works  of  fame 
Have  lived  indeed,  but  lived  without  a  name. 
Some  tawny  Ceres,  goddess  of  her  days, 
First  learned  with  stones  to  crack  the  well-dried  maize, 


BARLOW.  31 

Through  the  rough  sieve  to  shake  the  golden  shower, 

In  boiling  water  stir  the  yellow  flour : 

The  yellow  flour,  bestrewed  and  stirred  with  haste, 

Swells  in  the  flood  and  thickens  to  a  paste, 

Then  puffs  and  wallops,  rises  to  the  brim, 

Drinks  the  dry  knobs  that  on  the  surface  swim ; 

The  knobs  at  last  the  busy  ladle  breaks, 

And  the  whole  mass  its  true  consistence  takes. 

Could  but  her  sacred  name,  unknown  so  long, 
Rise,  like  her  labours,  to  the  son  of  song, 
To  her,  to  them,  I'd  consecrate  my  lays, 
And  blow  her  pudding  with  the  breath  of  praise. 
Not  through  the  rich  Peruvian  realms  alone 
The  fame  of  Sol's  sweet  daughter  should  be  known, 
But  o'er  the  world's  wide  clime  should  live  secure, 
Far  as  his  rays  extend,  as  long  as  they  endure. 

Dear  Hasty  Pudding,  what  unpromised  joy 
Expands  my  heart,  to  meet  thee  in  Savoy  ! 
Doomed  o'er  the  world  through  devious  paths  to  roam, 
Each  clime  my  country,  and  each  house  my  home, 
My  soul  is  soothed,  my  cares  have  found  an  end : 
I  greet  my  long-lost,  unforgotten  friend. 

For  thee  through  Paris,  that  corrupted  town, 
How  long  in  vain  I  wandered  up  and  down, 
Where  shameless  Bacchus,  with  his  drenching  hoard, 
Cold  from  his  cave  usurps  the  morning  board  ! 
London  is  lost  in  smoke  and  steeped  in  tea ; 
No  Yankee  there  can  lisp  the  name  of  thee; 
The  uncouth  word,  a  libel  on  the  town, 
Would  call  a  proclamation  from  the  crown. 
For  climes  oblique,  that  fear  the  sun's  full  rays, 
Chilled  in  their  fogs,  exclude  the  generous  maize  : 


32  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

A  grain  whose  rich,  luxuriant  growth  requires 
Short,  gentle  showers,  and  bright  ethereal  fires. 

But  here,  though  distant  from  our  native  shore, 
With  mutual  glee,  we  meet  and  laugh  once  more. 
The  same  !   I  know  thee  by  that  yellow  face, 
That  strong  complexion  of  true  Indian  race, 
Which  time  can  never  change,  nor  soil  impair, 
Nor  Alpine  snows,  nor  Turkey's  morbid  air ; 
For  endless  years,  through  every  mild  domain, 
Where  grows  the  maize,  there  thou  art  sure  to  reign. 
But  man,  more  fickle,  the  bold  license  claims, 
In  different  realms  to  give  thee  different  names. 
Thee  the  soft  nations  round  the  warm  Levant 
Polanta  call ;  the  French,  of  course,  Polante. 
E'en  in  thy  native  regions,  how  I  blush 
To  hear  the  Pennsylvanians  call  thee  Mush  ! 
On  Hudson's  banks,  while  men  of  Belgic  spawn 
Insult  and  eat  thee  by  the  name  Suppawn. 
All  spurious  appellations,  void  of  truth ; 
I've  better  known  thee  from  my  earliest  youth : 
Thy  name  is  HASTY  PUDDING  !   thus  our  sires 
Were  wont  to  greet  thee  fuming  from  the  fires  j 
And  while  they  argued  in  thy  just  defence 
With  logic  clear,  they  thus  explained  the  sense : 
"  In  haste  the  boiling  cauldron,  o'er  the  blaze, 
Receives  and  cooks  the  ready-powdered  maize ; 
In  haste  'tis  served,  and  then  in  equal  haste, 
With  cooling  milk,  we  make  the  sweet  repast. 
No  carving  to  be  done,  no  knife  to  grate 
The  tender  ear  and  wound  the  stony  plate ; 
But  the  smooth  spoon,  just  fitted  to  the  lip, 
And  taught  with  art  the  yielding  mass  to  4ip, 


BARLOW.  33 

By  frequent  journeys  to  the  bowl  well  stored, 
Performs  the  hasty  honours  of  the  board." 
Such  is  thy  name,  significant  and  clear, 
A  name,  a  sound  to  every  Yankee  dear, 
But  most  to  me,  whose  heart  and  palate  chaste 
Preserve  my  pure,  hereditary  taste. 

There  are  who  strive  to  stamp  with  disrepute 
The  luscious  food,  because  it  feeds  the  brute ; 
In  tropes  of  high-strained  wit,  while  gaudy  prigs 
Compare  thy  nursling  man  to  pampered  pigs : 
With  sovereign  scorn  I  treat  the  vulgar  jest, 
Nor  fear  to  share  thy  bounties  with  the  beast. 
What  though  the  generous  cow  gives  me  to  quaff 
The  milk  nutritious;  am  I  then  a  calf? 
Or  can  the  genius  of  the  noisy  swine, 
Though  nursed  on  pudding,  thence  lay  claim  to  mine  ? 
Sure  the  sweet  song  I  fashion  to  thy  praise, 
Runs  more  melodious  than  the  notes  they  raise. 

My  song,  resounding  in  its  grateful  glee, 
No  merit  claims :   I  praise  myself  in  thee. 
My  father  loved  thee  through  his  length  of  days, 
For  thee  his  fields  were  shaded  o'er  with  maize ; 
From  thee  what  health,  what  vigour  he  possessed, 
Ten  sturdy  freemen  from  his  loins  attest ; 
Thy  constellation  ruled  my  natal  morn, 
And  all  my  bones  were  made  of  Indian  corn. 
Delicious  grain  !  whatever  form  it  take, 
To  roast  or  boil,  to  smother  or  to  bake, 
In  every  dish  'tis  welcome  still  to  me, 
But  most,  my  Hasty  Pudding,  most  in  thee  ! 

Let  the  green  succotash  with  thee  contend  ; 
Let  beans  and  corn  their  sweetest  juices  blend ; 


34  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Let  butter  drench  them  in  its  yellow  tide, 
And  a  long  slice  of  bacon  grace  their  side ; 
Not  all  the  plate,  how  famed  soe'er  it  be, 
Can  please  my  palate  like  a  bowl  of  thee. 
Some  talk  of  Hoe- Cake,  fair  Virginia's  pride  ! 
Rich  Johnny-Cake  this  mouth  hath  often  tried; 
Both  please  me  well,  their  virtues  much  the  same, 
Alike  their  fabric,  as  allied  their  fame, 
Except  in  dear  New  England,  where  the  last 
Receives  a  dash  of  pumpkin  in  the  paste, 
To  give  it  sweetness  and  improve  the  taste. 
But  place  them  all  before  me,  smoking  hot, 
The  big,  round  dumpling,  rolling  from  the  pot ; 
The  pudding  of  the  bag,  whose  quivering  breast, 
With  suet  lined,  leads  on  the  Yankee  feast ; 
The  Charlotte  brown,  within  whose  crusty  sides 
A  belly  soft  the  pulpy  apple  hides ; 
The  yellow  bread,  whose  face  like  amber  glows, 
And  all  of  Indian  that  the  bakepan  knows, — 
You  tempt  me  not ;  my  favourite  greets  my  eyes, 
To  that  loved  bowl  my  spoon  by  instinct  flies. 

CANTO      II. 

To  mix  the  food  by  vicious  rules  of  art, 
To  kill  the  stomach  and  to  sink  the  heart, 
To  make  mankind  to  social  virtue  sour, 
Cram  o'er  each  dish,  and  be  what  they  devour ; 
For  this  the  kitchen  muse  first  framed  her  book, 
Commanding  sweat  to  stream  from  every  cook ; 
Children  no  more  their  antic  gambols  tried, 
And  friends  to  physic  wondered  why  they  died. 


BARLOW.  35 

Not  so  the  Yankee  :  his  abundant  feast, 
With  simples  furnished  and  with  plainness  dressed, 
A  numerous  offspring  gathers  round  the  board, 
And  cheers  alike  the  servant  and  the  lord ; 
Whose  well-bought  hunger  prompts  the  joyous  taste, 
And  health  attends  them  from  the  short  repast. 

While  the  full  pail  rewards  the  milkmaid's  toil, 
The  mother  sees  the  morning  cauldron  boil ; 
To  stir  the  pudding  next  demands  their  care ; 
To  spread  the  table  and  the  bowls  prepare  : 
To  feed  the  children  as  their  portions  cool, 
And  comb  their  heads,  and  send  them  off  to  school. 

Yet  may  the  simplest  dish  some  rules  impart, 
For  Nature  scorns  not  all  the  aids  of  Art. 
E'en  Hasty  Pudding,  purest  of  all  food, 
May  still  be  bad,  indifferent,  or  good, 
As  sage  experience  the  short  process  guides, 
Or  want  of  skill  or  want  of  care  presides. 
Whoe'er  would  form  it  on  the  surest  plan, 
To  rear  the  child  and  long  sustain  the  man ; 
To  shield  the  morals  while  it  mends  the  size, 
And  all  the  powers  of  every  food  supplies, — 
Attend  the  lesson  that  the  Muse  shall  bring ; 
Suspend  your  spoons,  and  listen  while  I  sing ! 

But  since,  O  man  !  thy  life  and  health  demand 
Not  food  alone,  but  labour  from  thy  hand, 
First,  in  the  field,  beneath  the  sun's  strong  rays, 
Ask  of  thy  mother  Earth  the  needful  maize ; 
She  loves  the  race  that  courts  her  yielding  soil, 
And  gives  her  bounties  to  the  sons  of  toil. 

When  now  the  ox,  obedient  to  thy  call, 
Repays  the  loan  that  filled  the  winter  stall, 


36  G  OLDEN   LEAVES. 

Pursue  his  traces  o'er  the  furrowed  plain, 
And  plant  in  measured  hills  the  golden  grain. 
But  when  the  tender  germ  begins  to  shoot, 
And  the  green  spire  declares  the  sprouting  root, 
Then  guard  your  nursling  from  each  greedy  foe, 
The  insidious  worm,  the  all-devouring  crow. 
A  little  ashes  sprinkled  round  the  spire, 
Soon  steeped  in  rain,  will  bid  the  worm  retire ; 
The  feathered  robber,  with  his  hungry  maw, 
Swift  flies  the  field  before  your  man  of  straw — 
A  frightful  image,  such  as  schoolboys  bring, 
When  met  to  burn  the  pope  or  hang  the  king. 

Thrice  in  the  season,  through  each  verdant  row, 
Wield  the  strong  ploughshare  and  the  faithful  hoe ; 
The  faithful  hoe,  a  double  task  that  takes, 
To  till  the  summer  corn  and  roast  the  winter  cakes. 

Slow  springs  the  blade,  while  checked  by  chilling  rains, 
Ere  yet  the  sun  the  seat  of  Cancer  gains  • 
But  when  his  fiercest  fires  emblaze  the  land, 
Then  start  the  juices,  then  the  roots  expand ; 
Then,  like  a  column  of  Corinthian  mould, 
The  stalk  struts  upward  and  the  leaves  unfold ; 
The  busy  branches  all  the  ridges  fill, 
Entwine  their  arms,  and  kiss  from  hill  to  hill. 
Here  cease  to  vex  them ;  all  your  cares  are  done  : 
Leave  the  last  labours  to  the  parent  Sun ; 
Beneath  his  genial  smiles,  the  well-dressed  field, 
When  Autumn  calls,  a  plenteous  crop  shall  yield. 

Now  the  strong  foliage  bears  the  standards  high, 
And  shoots  the  tall  top-gallants  to  the  sky ; 
The  suckling  ears  the  silken  fringes  bend, 
And,  pregnant  grown,  their  swelling  coats  distend ; 


BARLOW.  37 

The  loaded  stalk,  while  still  the  burden  grows, 
O'erhangs  the  space  that  runs  between  the  rows ; 
High  as  a  hop-field  waves  the  silent  grove, 
A  safe  retreat  for  little  thefts  of  love, 
When  the  pledged  roasting-ears  invite  the  maid 
To  meet  her  swain  beneath  the  new-formed  shade ; 
His  generous  hand  unloads  the  cumbrous  hill, 
And  the  green  spoils  her  ready  basket  fill ; 
Small  compensation  for  the  twofold  bliss, 
The  promised  wedding,  and  the  present  kiss. 

Slight  depredations  these ;  but  now  the  moon 
Calls  from  his  hollow  trees  the  sly  raccoon  ; 
And  while  by  night  he  bears  his  prize  away, 
The  bolder  squirrel  labours  through  the  day. 
Both  thieves  alike,  but  provident  of  time, 
A  virtue  rare,  that  almost  hides  their  crime. 
Then  let  them  steal  the  little  stores  they  can, 
And  fill  their  granaries  from  the  toils  of  man ;" 
We've  one  advantage  where  they  take  no  part — 
With  all  their  wiles,  they  ne'er  have  found  the  art 
To  boil  the  Hasty  Pudding ;  here  we  shine 
Superior  far  to  tenants  of  the  pine ; 
This  envied  boon  to  man  shall  still  belong, 
Unshared  by  them  in  substance  or  in  song. 

At  last  the  closing  season  browns  the  plain, 
And  ripe  October  gathers  in  the  grain ; 
Deep-loaded  carts  the  spacious  cornhouse  fill, 
The  sack  distended  marches  to  the  mill ; 
The  labouring  mill  beneath  the  burden  groans, 
And  showers  the  future  pudding  from  the  stones ; 
Till  the  glad  housewife  greets  the  powdered  gold, 
And  the  new  crop  exterminates  the  old. 
3* 


38  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 


CANTO      III. 


The  days  grow  short ;   but  though  the  falling  sun 
To  the  glad  swain  proclaims  his  day's  work  done, 
Night's  pleasing  shades  his  various  tasks  prolong, 
And  yield  new  subjects  to  my  various  song. 
For  now,  the  cornhouse  filled,  the  harvest  home, 
The  invited  neighbours  to  the  husking  come ; 
A  frolic  scene,  where  work,  and  mirth,  and  play, 
Unite  their  charms  to  chase  the  hours  away. 

Where  the  huge  heap  lies  centred  in  the  hall, 
The  lamp  suspended  from  the  cheerful  wall, 
Brown,  corn-fed  nymphs,  and  strong,  hard-handed  beaus, 
Alternate  ranged,  extend  in  circling  rows, 
Assume  their  seats,  the  solid  mass  attack ; 
The  dry  husks  rustle,  and  the  corncobs  crack ; 
The  song,  the  laugh,  alternate  notes  resound, 
And  the  sweet  cider  trips  in  silence  round. 

The  laws  of  husking  every  wight  can  tell, 
And  sure  no  laws  he  ever  keeps  so  well : 
For  each  red  ear  a  general  kiss  he  gains, 
With  each  smut  ear  he  smuts  the  luckless  swains ; 
But  when  to  some  sweet  maid  a  prize  rs  cast, 
Red  as  her  lips  and  taper  as  her  waist, 
She  walks  the  round  and  culls  one  favoured  beau, 
Who  leaps  the  luscious  tribute  to  bestow. 
Various  the  sport,  as  are  the  wits  and  brains 
Of  well-pleased  lasses  and  contending  swains ; 
Till  the  vast  mound  of  corn  is  swept  away, 
And  he  that  gets  the  last  ear  wins  the  day. 

Meanwhile,  the  housewife  urges  all  her  care, 
The  well-earned  feast  to  hasten  and  prepare. 


BARLOW.  39 

The  sifted  meal  already  waits  her  hand, 

The  milk  is  strained,  the  bowls  in  order  stand, 

The  fire  flames  high ;   and  as  a  pool  (that  takes 

The  headlong  stream  that  o'er  the  milldam  breaks) 

Foams,  roars,  and  rages  with  incessant  toils, 

So  the  vexed  cauldron  rages,  roars,  and  boils. 

First  with  clean  salt  she  seasons  well  the  food, 
Then  strews  the  flour,  and  thickens  all  the  flood. 
Long  o'er  the  simmering  fire  she  lets  it  stand ; 
To  stir  it  well  demands  a  stronger  hand ; 
The  husband  takes  his  turn :  and  round  and  round 
The  ladle  flies ;   at  last  the  toil  is  crowned ; 
When  to  the  board  the  thronging  huskers  pour, 
And  take  their  seats  as  at  the  corn  before. 

I  leave  them  to  their  feast.     There  still  belong 

More  copious  matters  to  my  faithful  song. 

For  rules  there  are,  though  ne'er  unfolded  yet, 

Nice  rules  and  wise,  how  pudding  should  be  ate. 
Some  with  molasses  line  the  luscious  treat, 

And  mix,  like  bards,  the  useful  with  the  sweet. 

A  wholesome  dish,  and  well  deserving  praise ; 

A  great  resource  in  those  bleak  wintry  days, 

When  the  chilled  earth  lies  buried  deep  in  snow, 

And  raging  Boreas  dries  the  shivering  cow. 

Blest  cow  !  thy  praise  shall  still  my  notes  employ, 

Great  source  of  health,  the  only  source  of  joy ; 

Mother  of  Egypt's  god — but  sure,  for  me, 

Were  I  to  leave  my  God,  I'd  worship  thee. 

How  oft  thy  teats  these  precious  hands  have  pressed  ! 

How  oft  thy  bounties  proved  my  only  feast ! 

How  oft  I've  fed  thee  with  my  favourite  grain  ! 

And  roared,  like  thee,  to  find  thy  children  slain  ! 


40  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

Yes,  swains  who  know  her  various  worth  to  prize, 
Ah  !   house  her  well  from  winter's  angry  skies. 
Potatoes,  pumpkins,  should  her  sadness  cheer, 
Corn  from  your  crib,  and  mashes  from  your  beer ; 
When  spring  returns,  she'll  well  acquit  the  loan, 
And  nurse  at  once  your  infants  and  her  own. 

Milk,  then,  with  pudding  I  would  always  choose ; 
To  this  in  future  I  confine  my  Muse, 
Till  she  in  haste  some  further  hints  unfold, 
Well  for  the  young,  nor  useless  to  the  old. 
First  in  your  bowl  the  milk  abundant  take, 
Then  drop  with  care  along  the  silver  lake 
Your  flakes  of  pudding ;  these  at  first  will  hide 
Their  little  bulk  beneath  the  swelling  tide ; 
But  when  their  growing  mass  no  more  can  sink, 
When  the  soft  island  looms  above  the  brink, 
Then  check  your  hand ;  you've  got  the  portion  due : 
So  taught  our  sires,  and  what  they  taught  is  true. 

There  is  a  choice  in  spoons.      Though  small  appear 
The  nice  distinction,  yet  to  me  'tis  clear. 
The  deep-bowled  Gallic  spoon,  contrived  to  scoop 
In  ample  draughts  the  thin,  diluted  soup, 
Performs  not  well  in  those  substantial  things, 
Whose  mass  adhesive  to  the  metal  clings ; 
Where  the  strong  labial  muscles  must  embrace 
The  gentle  curve,  and  sweep  the  hollow  space. 
With  ease  to  enter  and  discharge  the  freight, 
A  bowl  less  concave,  but  still  more  dilate, 
Becomes  the  pudding  best.      The  shape,  the  size, 
A  secret  rests,  unknown  to  vulgar  eyes. 
Experienced  feeders  can  alone  impart 
A  rule  so  much  above  the  lore  of  art. 


HOPKINSON.  41 

These  tuneful  lips,  that  thousand  spoons  have  tried, 
With  just  precision  could  the  point  decide, 
Though  not  in  song ;   the  Muse  but  poorly  shines 
In  cones,  and  cubes,  and  geometric  lines ; 
Yet  the  true  form,  as  near  as  she  can  tell, 
Is  that  small  section  of  a  goose-egg  shell, 
Which  in  two  equal  portions  shall  divide 
The  distance  from  the  centre  to  the  side. 
Fear  not  to  slaver ;  'tis  no  deadly  sin  : 
Like  the  free  Frenchman,  from  your  joyous  chin 
Suspend  the  ready  napkin ;  or,  like  me, 
Poise  with  one  hand  your  bowl  upon  your  knee ; 
Just  in  the  zenith  your  wise  head  project ; 
Your  full  spoon,  rising  in  a  line  direct, 
Bold  as  a  bucket,  heeds  no  drops  that  fall, — 
The  wide-mouthed  bowl  will  surely  catch  them  all ! 


HAIL      COLUMBIA. 

(1798.) 

TTAIL,  Columbia  !   happy  land  ! 

Hail,  ye  heroes,  heaven-born  band ! 

Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause, 

Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause, 
And  when  the  storm  of  war  was  gone, 
Enjoyed  the  peace  your  valour  won  ! 

Let  independence  be  our  boast, 

Ever  mindful  what  it  cost ; 


42  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Ever  grateful  for  the  prize, 

Let  its  altar  reach  the  skies. 
Firm — united — let  us  be, 
Rallying  round  our  liberty ; 
As  a  band  of  brothers  joined, 
Peace  and  safety  we  shall  find. 

Immortal  patriots  !  rise  once  more  ; 

Defend  your  rights,  defend  your  shore ; 
Let  no  rude  foe,  with  impious  hand — 
Let  no  rude  foe,  with  impious  hand, 

Invade  the  shrine  where  sacred  lies 

Of  toil  and  blood  the  well-earned  prize. 
While  offering  peace  sincere  and  just, 
In  Heaven  we  place  a  manly  trust, 
That  truth  and  justice  will  prevail, 
And  every  scheme  of  bondage  fail. 
Firm — united,  &c. 

Sound,  sound  the  trump  of  Fame  ! 

Let  WASHINGTON'S  great  name 

Ring  through  the  world  with  loud  applause, 
Ring  through  the  world  with  loud  applause 

Let  every  clime  to  Freedom  dear 

Listen  with  a  joyful  ear. 

With  equal  skill  and  godlike  power, 
He  governs  in  the  fearful  hour 
Of  horrid  war ;  or  guides  with  ease 
The  happier  times  of  honest  peace. 
Firm — united,  &c. 

Behold,  the  Chief  who  now  commands 
Once  more  to  serve  his  country  stands — 


MOORE.  43 

The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat, 
The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat : 
But,  armed  in  virtue  firm  and  true, 
His  hopes  are  fixed  on  heaven  and  you. 
When  Hope  was  sinking  in  dismay, 
And  glooms  obscured  Columbia's  day, 
His  steady  mind,  from  changes  free, 
Resolved  on  death  or  liberty. 
Firm — united,  &c. 


(Slanent  €.  fttoore. 

A    VISIT     FROM     ST.     NICHOLAS. 

?A  I  *WAS  the  night  before  Christmas,  when  all  through 

the  house 

Not  a  creature  was  stirring,  not  even  a  mouse ; 
The  stockings  were  hung  by  the  chimney  with  care, 
In  hopes  that  St.  Nicholas  soon  would  be  there ; 
The  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in  their  beds, 
While  visions  of  sugar-plums  danced  in  their  heads ; 
And  mamma  in  her   kerchief,  and  I  in  my  cap, 
Had  just  settled  our  brains  for  a  long  winter's  nap — 
When  out  on  the  lawn  there  arose  such  a  clatter, 
I  sprang  from  my  bed  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

Away  to  the  window  I  flew  like  a  flash, 
Tore  open  the  shutters  and  threw  up  the  sash. 
The  moon,  on  the  breast  of  the  new-fallen  snow, 
Gave  the  lustre  of  mid-day  to  objects  below — 
When,  what  to  my  wondering  eyes  should  appear, 
But  a  miniature  sleigh  and  eight  tiny  rein-deer, 


44  G  OLDEN   LEAVES. 

With  a  little  old  driver,  so  lively  and  quick, 

I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick  ! 

More  rapid  than  eagles  his  coursers  they  came, 

And  he  whistled,  and  shouted,  and  called  them  by  name : 

"  Now,  Dasher  !   now,  Dancer  !   now,  Prancer  and  Vixen  ! 

On  !   Comet,  on  !  Cupid,  on  !  Donder  and  Blitzen — 

To  the  top  of  the  porch,  to  the  top  of  the  wall ! 

Now,  dash  away,  dash  away,  dash  away  all !" 

As  dry  leaves  that  before  the  wild  hurricane  fly, 
When  they  meet  with  an  obstacle,  mount  to  the  sky, 
So,  up  to  the  house-top  the  coursers  they  flew, 
With  the  sleigh  full  of  toys — and  St.  Nicholas  too. 
And  then  in  a  twinkling  I  heard  on  the  roof 
The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  little  hoof. 
As  I  drew  in  my  head,  and  was  turning  around, 
Down  the  chimney  St.  Nicholas  came  with  a  bound. 
He  was  dressed  all  in  fur,  from  his  head  to  his  foot, 
And  his  clothes  were  all  tarnished  with  ashes  and  soot ; 
A  bundle  of  toys  he  had  flung  on  his  back, 
And  he  looked  like  a  peddler  just  opening  his  pack. 
His  eyes  how  they  twinkled  !  his  dimples  how  merry ! 
His  cheeks  were  like  roses,  his  nose  like  a  cherry ; 
His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up  like  a  bow, 
And  the  beard  on  his  chin  was  as  white  as  the  snow. 
The  stump  of  a  pipe  he  held  tight  in  his  teeth, 
And  the  smoke,  it  encircled  his  head  like  a  wreath ; 
He  had  a  broad  face,  and  a  little  round  belly, 
That  shook,  when  he  laughed,  like  a  bowl  full  of  jelly. 
He  was  chubby  and  plump ;   a  right  jolly  old  elf; 
And  I  laughed   when  I  saw  him,  in  spite  of  myself. 
A  wink  of  his  eye,  and  a  twist  of  his  head, 
Soon  gave  me  to  know  I  had  nothing  to  dread. 


ALLS  TON.  45 

He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  went  straight  to  his  work, 
And  filled  all  the  stockings ;   then  turned  with  a  jerk, 
And  laying  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose, 
And  giving  a  nod,  up  the  chimney  he  rose. 
He  sprang  to  his  sleigh,  to  his  team  gave  a  whistle, 
And  away  they  all  flew  like  the  down  of  a  thistle ; 
But  I  heard  him  exclaim,  ere  he  drove  out  of  sight, 
"  Happy  Christmas  to  all,  and  to  all  a  good-night !" 


lDa0l)ington 

THE      PAINT-KING. 

IT'AIR  Ellen  was  long  the  delight  of  the  young ; 
•*•          No  damsel  could  with  her  compare ; 
Her  charms  were  the  theme  of  the  heart  and  the  tongue, 
And  bards  without  number,  in  ecstasies,  sung 
The  beauties  of  Ellen  the  fair. 

Yet  cold  was  the  maid ;  and,  though  legions  advanced, 

All  drilled  by  Ovidian  art, 

And  languished  and  ogled,  protested  and  danced, 
Like  shadows  they  came,  and  like  shadows  they  glanced 

From  the  hard,  polished  ice  of  her  heart. 

Yet  still  did  the  heart  of  fair  Ellen  implore 
A  something  that  could  not  be  found ; 
Like  a  sailor  she  seemed  on  a  desolate  shore, 
With  nor  house,  nor  a  tree,  nor  a  sound  but  the  roar 
Of  breakers  high  dashing  around. 


46  GOLDEN  LEA  VE  S. 

From  object  to  object  still,  still  would  she  veer, 

Though  nothing,  alas !   could  she  find ; 
Like  the  moon,  without  atmosphere,  brilliant  and  clear, 
Yet  doomed,  like  the  moon,  with  no  being  to  cheer 
The  bright  barren  waste  of  her  mind. 

But,  rather  than  sit  like  a  statue  so  still, 

When  the  rain  made  her  mansion  a  pound, 
Up  and  down  would  she  go,  like  the  sails  of  a  mill, 
And  pat  every  stair,  like  a  woodpecker's  bill, 
From  the  tiles  of  the  roof  to  the  ground. 

One  morn,  as  the  maid  from  her  casement  inclined, 

Passed  a  youth  with  a  frame  in  his  hand. 

The  casement  she  closed,  not  the  eye  of  her  mind, 

For,  do  all  she  could,  no,  she  could  not  be  blind  ; 

Still  before  her  she  saw  the  youth  stand. 

"  Ah,  what  can  he  do  ?"  said  the  languishing  maid, 

"  Ah,  what  with  that  frame  can  he  do  ?" 
And  she  knelt  to  the  goddess  of  secrets,  and  prayed, 
When  the  youth  passed  again,  and  again  he  displayed 
The  frame  and  a  picture  to  view. 

"  Oh,  beautiful  picture  !"  the  fair  Ellen  cried, 

"  I  must  see  thee  again,  or  I  die." 
Then  under  her  white  chin  her  bonnet  she  tied, 
And  after  the  youth  and  the  picture  she  hied, 

When  the  youth,  looking  back,  met  her  eye. 

et  P'air  damsel,"  said  he  (and  he  chuckled  the  while), 

"  This  picture,  I  see,  you  admire  : 
Then  take  it,  I  pray  you ;   perhaps  'twill  beguile 
Some  moments  of  sorrow  (nay,  pardon  my  smile), 

Or,  at  least,  keep  you  home  by  the  fire." 


ALLS  TON.  47 

Then  Ellen  the  gift,  with  delight  and  surprise, 

From  the  cunning  young  stripling  received. 
But  she  knew  not  the  poison  that  entered  her  eyes, 
When,  sparkling  with  rapture,  they  gazed  on  her  prize — - 
Thus,  alas,  are  fair  maidens  deceived  ! 

'Twas  a  youth  o'er  the  form  of  a  statue  inclined, 

And  the  sculptor  he  seemed  of  the  stone ; 
Yet  he  languished  as  though  for  its  beauty  he  pined, 
And  gazed  as  the  eyes  of  the  statue  so  blind 
Reflected  the  beams  of  his  own. 

'Twas  the  tale  of  the  sculptor  Pygmalion  of  old; 

Fair  Ellen  remembered,  and  sighed  : 
"Ah,  couldst  thou  but  lift  from  that  marble  so  cold 
Thine  eyes  too  imploring,  thy  arms  should  enfold, 

And  press  me  this  day  as  thy  bride." 

She  said :  when,  behold,  from  the  canvas  arose 

The  youth,  and  he  stepped  from  the  frame : 
With  a  furious  transport  his  arms  did  enclose 
The  love-plighted  Ellen ;  and,  clasping,  he  froze 
The  blood  of  the  maid  with  his  flame. 

She  turned,  and  beheld  on  each  shoulder  a  wing. 

"  O  Heaven  !"  cried  she,  "who  art  thou?" 
From  the  roof  to  the  ground  did  his  fierce  answer  ring, 
As,  frowning,  he  thundered,  "  I  am  the  Paint-King  ! 

And  mine,  lovely  maid,  thou  art  now  !" 

Then  high  from  the  ground  did  the  grim  monster  lift 

The  loud-screaming  maid  like  a  blast ; 
And  he  sped  through  the  air  like  a  meteor  swift, 
While  the  clouds,  wand'ring  by  him,  did  fearfully  drift 
To  the  right  and  the  left  as  he  passed. 


48  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

Now  suddenly  sloping  his  hurricane  flight, 

With  an  eddying  whirl  he  Descends ; 
The  air  all  below  him  becomes  black  as  night, 
And  the  ground  where  he  treads,  as  if  moved  with  affright, 

Like  the  surge  of  the  Caspian  bends. 

f<  I  am  here  !"  said  the  fiend,  and  he  thundering  knocked 

At  the  gates  of  a  mountainous  cave ; 
The  gates  open  flew,  as  by  magic  unlocked, 
While  the  peaks  of  the  mount,  reeling  to  and  fro,  rocked 

Like  an  island  of  ice  on  the  wave. 

"  Oh,  mercy  !"  cried  Ellen,  and  swooned  in  his  arms; 

But  the  Paint-King,  he  scoffed  at  her  pain. 
"  Prithee,  love,"  said  the  monster,  "  what  mean  these  alarms  ?" 
She  hears  not,  she  sees  not  the  terrible  charms, 

That  work  her  to  horror  again. 

She  opens  her  lids,  but  no  longer  her  eyes 

Behold  the  fair  youth  she  would  woo ; 
Now  appears  the  Paint-King  in  his  natural  guise ; 
His  face,  like  a  palette  of  villanous  dyes, 

Black  and  white,  red  and  yellow,  and  blue. 

On  the  skull  of  a  Titan,  that  Heaven  defied, 

Sat  the  fiend,  like  the  grim  giant  Gog, 
While  aloft  to  his  mouth  a  huge  pipe  he  applied, 
Twice  as  big  as  the  Eddystone  Lighthouse,  descried 

As  it  looms  through  an  easterly  fog. 

And  anon,  as  he  puffed  the  vast  volumes,  were  seen, 

In  horrid  festoons  on  the  wall, 

Legs  and  arms,  heads  and  bodies  emerging  between, 
Like  the  drawing-room  grim  of  the  Scotch  Sawney  Beane, 

By  the  devil  dressed  out  for  a  ball. 


ALLS  TON.  49 

"Ah  me !"  cried  the  damsel,  and  fell  at  his  feet. 

'•  Must  I  hang  on  these  walls  to  be  dried  ?v 
"  Oh,  no,"  said  the  fiend,  while  he  sprang  from  his  seat, 
"  A  far  nobler  fortune  thy  person  shall  meet ; 

Into  paint  will  I  grind  thee,  my  bride  !" 

Then  seizing  the  maid  by  her  dark  auburn  hair, 

An  oil-jug  he  plunged  her  within. 
Seven  days,  seven  nights,  with  the  shrieks  of  despair, 
Did  Ellen  in  torment  convulse  the  dun  air, 

All  covered  with  oil  to  the  chin. 

On  the  morn  of  the  eighth,  on  a  huge  sable  stone 

Then  Ellen,  all  reeking,  he  laid ; 
With  a  rock  for  his  muller,  he  crushed  every  bone, 
But,  though  ground  to  jelly,  still,  still  did  she  groan ; 

For  life  had  forsook  not  the  maid. 

Now  reaching  his  palette,  with  masterly  care 

Each  tint  on  its  surface  he  spread ; 
The  blue  of  her  eyes,  and  the  brown  of  her  hair, 
And  the  pearl  and  the  white  of  her  forehead  so  fair, 

And  her  lips'  and  her  cheeks'  rosy  red. 

Then,  stamping  his  foot,  did  the  monster  exclaim, 

"  Now  I  brave,  cruel  fairy,  thy  scorn  !" 
When,  lo  !  from  a  chasm  wide-yawning  there  came 
A  light,  tiny  chariot  of  rose-coloured  flame, 
By  a  team  of  ten  glow-worms  upborne. 

Enthroned  in  the  midst,  on  an  emerald  bright, 

Fair  Geraldine  sat  without  peer ; 
Her  robe  was  a  gleam  of  the  first  blush  of  light, 
And  her  mantle  the  fleece  of  a  noon-cloud  white, 

And  a  beam  of  the  moon  was  her  spear. 


50  G  OLDEN  LEAVE S. 

In  an  accent  that  stole  on  the  still,  charmed  air 

Like  the  first  gentle  language  of  Eve, 
Thus  spake  from  her  chariot  the  fairy  so  fair : 
"I  come  at  thy  call,  but,  O  Paint-King,  beware, 

Beware  if  again  you  deceive  !" 

"  'Tis  true,"  said  the  monster,  "  thou  queen  of  my  heart, 

Thy  portrait  I  oft  have  essayed ; 
Yet  ne'er  to  the  canvas  could  I  with  my  art 
The  least  of  thy  wonderful  beauties  impart ; 

And  my  failure  with  scorn  you  repaid. 

"Now  I  swear  by  the  light  of  the  Comet- King's  tail" — 
And  he  towered  with  pride  as  he  spoke — 

"  If  again  with  these  magical  colours  I  fail, 

The  crater  of  JEtna  shall  hence  be  my  jail, 
And  my  food  shall  be  sulphur  and  smoke. 

"  But  if  I  succeed,  then,  O  fair  Geraldine, 

Thy  promise  with  justice  I  claim, 
And  thou,  queen  of  fairies,  shalt  ever  be  mine, 
The  bride  of  my  bed ;  and  thy  portrait  divine 

Shall  fill  all  the  earth  with  my  fame." 

He  spake ;  when,  behold,  the  fair  Geraldine's  form 

On  the  canvas  enchantingly  glowed  j 
His  touches,  they  flew  like  the  leaves  in  a  storm ; 
And  the  pure  pearly  white,  and  the  carnation  warm, 

Contending  in  harmony,  flowed. 

And  now  did  the  portrait  a  twin-sister  seem 

To  the  figure  of  Geraldine  fair : 
With  the  same  sweet  expression  did  faithfully  teem 
Each  muscle,  each  feature ;  in  short,  not  a  gleam 

Was  lost  of  her  beautiful  hair. 


ALLS  TON.  51 

'Twas  the  fairy  herself !  but,  alas,  her  blue  eyes 

Still  a  pupil  did  ruefully  lack ; 
And  who  shall  describe  the  terrific  surprise 
That  seized  the  Paint-King  when,  behold,  he  descries 

Not  a  speck  of  his  palette  of  black  ! 

"I  am  lost !"  said  the  fiend,  and  he  shook  like  a  leaf; 

When,  casting  his  eyes  to  the  ground, 
He  saw  the  lost  pupils  of  Ellen  with  grief 
In  the  jaws  of  a  mouse,  and  the  sly  little  thief 

Whisk  away  from  his  sight  with  a  bound. 

"  I  am  lost !"  said  the  fiend,  and  he  fell  like  a  stone; 

Then,  rising,  the  fairy,  in  ire, 
With  a  touch  of  her  finger,  she  loosened  her  zone 
(While  the  limbs  on  the  wall  gave  a  terrible  groan), 

And  she  swelled  to  a  column  of  fire. 

Her  spear  now  a  thunder-bolt  flashed  in  the  air, 

And  sulphur  the  vault  filled  around ; 
She  smote  the  grim  monster :  and  now,  by  the  hair 
High  lifting,  she  hurled  him,  in  speechless  despair, 
Down  the  depths  of  the  chasm  profound. 

Then  over  the  picture  thrice  waving  her  spear, 
"  Come  forth  !"  said  the  good  Geraldine ; 
When,  behold,  from  the  canvas  descending,  appear 
Fair  Ellen,  in  person  more  lovely  than  e'er, 
With  grace  more  than  ever  divine  ! 


52  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 


AMERICA     TO     GREAT     BRITAIN. 

A  LL  hail !  thou  noble  land, 
•^**  Our  fathers'  native  soil ! 
Oh,  stretch  thy  mighty  hand, 

Gigantic  grown  by  toil, 
O'er  the  vast  Atlantic  wave  to  our  shore ; 
For  thou,  with  magic  might, 
Canst  reach  to  where  the  light 
Of  Phcebus  travels  bright 
The  world  o'er ! 

The  Genius  of  our  clime, 

From  his  pine-embattled  steep, 
Shall  hail  the  great  sublime ; 

While  the  Tritons  of  the  deep 
With  their  conchs  the  kindred  league  shall  proclaim. 
Then  let  the  world  combine — 
O'er  the  main  our  naval  line, 
Like  the  milky-way,  shall  shine 
Bright  in  fame  ! 

Though  ages  long  have  passed 

Since  our  fathers  left  their  home, 
Their  pilot  in  the  blast, 

O'er  untra veiled  seas  to  roam, — 
Yet  lives  the  blood  of  England  in  our  veins ! 
And  shall  we  not  proclaim 
That  blood  of  honest  fame, 
Which  no  tyranny  can  tame 
By  its  chains  ? 


PIERPONT.  53 

While  the  language  free  and  bold 
Which  the  bard  of  Avon  sung, 
In  which  our  MILTON  told 

How  the  vault  of  heaven  rung, 
When  Satan,  blasted,  fell  with  his  host ; 
While  this,  with  reverence  meet, 
Ten  thousand  echoes  greet, 
From  rock  to  rock  repeat 
Round  our  coast ; 

While  the  manners,  while  the  arts, 

That  mould  a  nation's  soul, 
Still  cling  around  our  hearts, 

Between  let  ocean  roll, 

Our  joint  communion  breaking  with  the  sun : 
Yet,  still,  from  either  beach 
The  voice  of  blood  shall  reach, 
More  audible  than  speech, 
"We  are  one!" 


lol)tt  JJterpont. 

THE     PILGRIM     FATHERS. 

>TpHE  Pilgrim  fathers — where  are  they  ? 

•*•       The  waves  that  brought  them  o'er 

Still  roll  in  the  bay,  and  throw  their  spray 

As  they  break  along  the  shore ; 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  as  they  rolled  that  day, 

When  the  May-Flower  moored  below, 


54  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

When  the  sea  around  was  black  with  storms, 
And  white  the  shore  with  snow. 

The  mists,  that  wrapped  the  Pilgrim's  sleep, 

Still  brood  upon  the  tide ; 
And  his  rocks  yet  keep  their  watch  by  the  deep, 

To  stay  its  waves  of  pride. 
But  the  snow-white  sail,  that  he  gave  to  the  gale 

When  the  heavens  looked  dark,  is  gone ; — 
As  an  angel's  wing,  through  an  opening  cloud, 

Is  seen,  and  then  withdrawn. 

The  Pilgrim  exile — sainted  name  ! — 

The  hill,  whose  icy  brow 
Rejoiced,  when  he  came,  in  the  morning's  flame, 

In  the  morning's  flame  burns  now. 
And  the  moon's  cold  light,  as  it  lay  that  night 

On  the  hill-side  and  the  sea, 
Still  lies  where  he  laid  his  houseless  head ; — 

But  the  Pilgrim — where  is  he  ? 

The  Pilgrim  fathers  are  at  rest : 

When  Summer's  throned  on  high, 
And  the  world's  warm  breast  is  in  verdure  dressed, 

Go,  stand  on  the  hill  where  they  lie. 
The  earliest  ray  of  the  golden  day 

On  that  hallowed  spot  is  cast ; 
And  the  evening  sun,  as  he  leaves  the  world, 

Looks  kindly  on  that  spot  last. 

The  Pilgrim  spirit  has  not  fled  : 

It  walks  in  noon's  broad  light ; 
And  it  watches  the  bed  of  the  glorious  dead, 

With  the  holy  stars,  by  night. 


PIERPONT.  55 

It  watches  the  bed  of  the  brave  who  have  bled, 

And  shall  guard  this  ice-bound  shore, 
Till  the  waves  of  the  bay,  where  the  May-Flower  lay, 

Shall  foam  and  freeze  no  more. 


"PASSING   AWAY." 

"1T7AS  it  the  chime  of  a  tiny  bell, 

That  came  so  sweet  to  my  dreaming  ear — 
Like  the  silvery  tones  of  a  Fairy's  shell 

That  he  winds  on  the  beach,  so  mellow  and  clear, 
When  the  winds  and  the  waves  lie  together  asleep, 
And  the  Moon  and  the  Fairy  are  watching  the  deep, 
She  dispensing  her  silvery  light, 
And  he  his  notes,  as  silvery  quite, 
While  the  boatman  listens  and  ships  his  oar, 
To  catch  the  music  that  comes  from  the  shore  ? — 
Hark !  the  notes  on  my  ear  that  play, 
Are  set  to  words :  as  they  float,  they  say, 
"  Passing  away  !  passing  away  !" 

But  no ;  it  was  not  a  Fairy's  shell, 

Blown  on  the  beach,  so  mellow  and  clear ; 

Nor  was  it  the  tongue  of  a  silver  bell, 
Striking  the  hour,  that  filled  my  ear, 

As  I  lay  in  my  dream ;  yet  was  it  a  chime 

That  told  of  the  flow  of  the  stream  of  Time. 

For  a  beautiful  clock  from  the  ceiling  hung, 

And  a  plump  little  girl,  for  a  pendulum,  swung 
As  you've  sometimes  seen,  in  a  little  ring 

That  hangs  in  his  cage,  a  Canary-bird  swing) ; 


56  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

And  she  held  to  her  bosom  a  budding  bouquet, 
And,  as  she  enjoyed  it,  she  seemed  to  say, 
"  Passing  away  !   passing  away  !" 

Oh,  how  bright  were  the  wheels,  that  told 

Of  the  lapse  of  time,  as  they  moved  round  slow ! 
And  the  hands,  as  they  swept  o'er  the  dial  of  gold, 

Seemed  to  point  to  the  girl  below. 
And  lo !  she  had  changed :  in  a  few  short  hours 
Her  bouquet  had  become  a  garland  of  flowers, 
That  she  held  in  her  outstretched  hands,  and  flung 
This  way  and  that,  as  she,  dancing,  swung 
In  the  fulness  of  grace  and  womanly  pride, 
That  told  me  she  soon  was  to  be  a  bride ; — 
"  Yet  then,  when  expecting  her  happiest  day, 
In  the  same  sweet  voice  I  heard  her  say, 
"  Passing  away  !  passing  away  !" 

While  I  gazed  at  that  fair  one's  cheek,  a  shade 

Of  thought,  or  care,  stole  softly  over, 
Like  that  by  a  cloud  in  a  summer's  day  made, 

Looking  down  on  a  field  of  blossoming  clover. 
The  rose  yet  lay  on  her  cheek,  but  its  flush 
Had  something  lost  of  its  brilliant  blush ; 
And  the  light  in  her  eye,  and  the  light  on  the  wheels, 

That  marched  so  calmly  round  above  her, 
Was  a  little  dimmed — as  when  Evening  steals 

Upon  Noon's  hot  face  :  yet  one  couldn't  but  love  her, 
For  she  looked  like  a  mother,  whose  first  babe  lay 

Rocked  on  her  breast,  as  she  swung  all  day; — 

And  she  seemed  in  the  same  silver  tone  to  say, 
"  Passing  away  !  passing  away  !" 


WO  OD  WORTH.  57 

While  yet  I  looked,  what  a  change  there  came ! 

Her  eye  was  quenched,  and  her  cheek  was  wan : 
Stooping  and  staffed  was  her  withered  frame, 

Yet,  just  as  busily,  swung  she  on ; 
The  garland  beneath  her  had  fallen  to  dust ; 
The  wheels  above  her  were  eaten  with  rust ; 
The  hands,  that  over  the  dial  swept, 
Grew  crooked  and  tarnished,  but  on  they  kept, 
And  still  there  came  that  silver  tone 
From  the  shrivelled  lips  of  the  toothless  crone 

(Let  me  never  forget  till  my  dying  day 

The  tone  or  the  burden  of  her  lay) — 
"  Passing  away  !   passing  away  !" 


Samuel  lHoobu)ovil). 

THE     BUCKET. 

TTOW  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood, 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view  ! — 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled  wildwood, 

And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew  ! 
The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  that  stood  by  it ; 

The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell ; 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh  it ; 

And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  that  hung  in  the  well — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket,  which  hung  in  the  well. 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hailed  as  a  treasure ; 
For  often  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the  field, 


58  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure — 
The  purest  and  sweetest  that  Nature  can  yield. 

How  ardent  I  seized  it,  with  hands  that  were  glowing, 
And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  fell ! 

Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing, 
And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well — 

The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 

The  moss-covered  bucket,  arose  from  the  well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green,  mossy  brim  to  receive  it, 

As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to  my  lips ! 
Not  a  full,  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to  leave  it, 

The  brightest  that  beauty  or  revelry  sips. 
And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  habitation, 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 
As  Fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation, 

And  sighs  for  the  bucket  that  hangs  in  the  well  — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket,  that  hangs  in  the  well ! 


Etcljarb  jjeurg  JDana. 

IMMORTALITY. 

TS  this  thy  prison-house,  thy  grave,  then,  Love  ? 

•*-  And  doth  Death  cancel  the  great  bond  that  holds 

Commingling  spirits  ?     Are  thoughts  that  know  no  bounds, 

But,  self-inspired,  rise  upward,  searching  out 

The  Eternal  Mind — the  Father  of  all  thought — 

Are  they  become  mere  tenants  of  a  tomb  ? — 

Dwellers  in  darkness,  who  the  illuminate  realms 


DANA.  59 

Of  uncreated  light  have  visited,  and  lived  ? — 
Lived  in  the  dreadful  splendour  of  that  throne, 
Which  One,  with  gentle  hand,  the  veil  of  flesh 
Lifting,  that  hung  'twixt  man  and  it,  revealed 
In  glory  ? — throne,  before  which,  even  now, 
Our  souls,  moved  by  prophetic  power,  bow  down, 
Rejoicing,  yet  at  their  own  natures  awed  ? 
Souls,  that  Thee  know  by  a  mysterious  sense, 
Thou  awful,  unseen  Presence  !  are  they  quenched  ? 
Or  burn  they  on,  hid  from  our  mortal  eyes 
By  that  bright  day  which  ends  not ;  as  the  sun 
His  robe  of  light  flings  round  the  glittering  stars  ? 

And  with  our  frames  do  perish  all  our  loves  ? 
Do  those  that  took  their  root,  and  put  forth  buds, 
And  their  soft  leaves  unfolded,  in  the  warmth 
Of  mutual  hearts,  grow  up  and  live  in  beauty, 
Then  fade  and  fall,  like  fair  unconscious  flowers  ? 
Are  thoughts  and  passions,  that  to  the  tongue  give  speech, 
And  make  it  send  forth  winning  harmonies — 
That  to  the  cheek  do  give  its  living  glow, 
And  vision  in  the  eye  the  soul  intense 
With  that  for  which  there  is  no  utterance — 
Are  these  the  body's  accidents  ? — no  more  ? — 
To  live  in  it,  and,  when  that  dies,  go  out 
Like  the  burnt  taper's  flame  ? 

Oh  !  listen,  man  ! 

A  voice  within  us  speaks  that  startling  word, 
"  Man,  thou  shalt  never  die  !"     Celestial  voices 
Hymn  it  unto  our  souls ;  according  harps, 
By  angel-fingers  touched,  when  the  mild  stars 
Of  morning  sang  together,  sound  forth  still 


60  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

The  song  of  our  great  immortality : 

Thick-clustering  orbs,  and  this  our  fair  domain, 

The  tall,  dark  mountains,  and  the  deep-toned  seas, 

Join  in  this  solemn,  universal  song. 

Oh  !  listen,  ye,  our  spirits ;   drink  it  in 

From  all  the  air.      'Tis  in  the  gentle  moonlight ; 

'Tis  floating  midst  Day's  setting  glories ;  Night, 

Wrapped  in  her  sable  robe,  with  silent  step 

Comes  to  our  bed,  and  breathes  it  in  our  ears : 

Night,  and  the  dawn,  bright  day,  and  thoughtful  eve, 

All  time,  all  bounds,  the  limitless  expanse, 

As  one  vast  mystic  instrument,  are  touched 

By  an  unseen,  living  Hand,  and  conscious  chords 

Quiver  with  joy  in  this  great  jubilee. 

The  dying  hear  it ;  and,  as  sounds  of  earth 

Grow  dull  and  distant,  wake  their  passing  souls 

To  mingle  in  this  heavenly  harmony. 


THE     LITTLE     BEACH-BIRD. 

'TpHOU  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  Sea, 
-*-       Why  takest  thou  its  melancholy  voice, 
And  with  that  boding  cry 
O'er  the  waves  dost  thou  fly  ? 
Oh  rather,  bird,  with  me 

Through  the  fair  land  rejoice ! 

n. 

Thy  flitting  form  comes  ghostly  dim  and  pale, 
As  driven  by  a  beating  storm  at  sea ; 


DANA.  6l 


Thy  cry  is  weak  and  scared, 
As  if  thy  mates  had  shared 
The  doom  of  us.     Thy  wail — 
What  does  it  bring  to  me  ? 


Thou  call'st  along  the  sand,  and  haunt'st  the  surge, 
Restless  and  sad ;  as  if,  in  strange  accord 
With  the  motion  and  the  roar 
Of  waves  that  drive  to  shore, 
One  spirit  did  ye  urge — 
The  Mystery — the  Word. 


Of  thousands  thou  both  sepulchre  and  pall, 
Old  Ocean,  art !     A  requiem  o'er  the  dead 
From  out  thy  gloomy  cells 
A  tale  of  mourning  tells — 
Tells  of  man's  woe  and  fall, 
His  sinless  glory  fled. 

v. 

Then  turn  thee,  little  bird,  and  take  thy  flight 
Where  the  complaining  Sea  shall  sadness  bring 
Thy  spirit  never  more. 
Come,  quit  with  me  the  shore 
For  gladness,  and  the  light 
Where  birds  of  summer  sing. 
4* 


62  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Jrcmcts  Scott  Keg. 

THE     STAR-SPANGLED     BANNER. 

!  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 
What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the   twilight's  last 
gleaming ; 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  through  the  perilous 

fight, 

O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched  were  so  gallantly  stream- 
ing? 

And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still  there ; 
Oh,  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ? 

On  the  shore,  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the  deep, 
Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 
What  is  that  which  the  breeze  o'er  the  towering  steep 

As  it  fitfully  blows,  half  conceals,  half  discloses  ? 
Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam ; 
Its  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  on  the  stream : 
'Tis  the  star-spangled  banner !  oh,  long  may  it  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 

And  where  is  the  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore, 
'Mid  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion, 

A  home  and  a  country  they'd  leave  us  no  more  ? 

Their  blood  hath  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps'  pollu- 
tion; 

No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 

From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave — 


PA  YNE.  63 

And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 

Ohj  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  our  loved  home  and  the  war's  desolation ; 
Blest  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  Heaven-rescued  land 
Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and  preserved  us  a 

nation  ! 

Then  conquer  we  must,  for  our  cause  it  is  just, 
And  this  be  our  motto,  "  In  GOD  is  our  trust ;" 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 


loljn  fijoumrb  JJajme. 

SWEET     HOME. 

TV/TID  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam, 
-*•*-*•   Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home  ! 
A  charm  from  the  skies  seems  to  hallow  us  there, 
Which  seek  through  the  world,  is  ne'er  met  with  elsewhere. 

Home  !  home,  sweet  home  ! 

There's  no  place  like  home  ! 

An  exile  from  home,  splendour  dazzles  in  vain — 
Oh,  give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottage  again ; 
The  birds  singing  gayly,  that  come  at  my  call : 
Give  me  these,  and  the  peace  of  mind,  dearer  than  all. 

Home  !  sweet,  sweet  home  ! 

There's  no  place  like  home  ! 


G  OLDEN   LEA  VES. 


lames  21.  Jplljonse. 

THE  LAST  EVENING  BEFORE  ETERNITY. 

Y  this,  the  sun  his  westering  car  drove  low ; 

Round  his  broad  wheels  full  many  a  lucid  cloud 
Floated,  like  happy  isles  in  seas  of  gold ; 
Along  the  horizon  castled  shapes  were  piled, 
Turrets  and  towers,  whose  fronts  embattled  gleamed 
With  yellow  light :  smit  by  the  slanting  ray, 
A  ruddy  beam  the  canopy  reflected ; 
With  deeper  light  the  ruby  blushed ;  and  thick 
Upon  the  seraphs'  wings  the  glowing  spots 
Seemed  drops  of  fire.      Uncoiling  from  its  staff, 
With  fainter  wave,  the  gorgeous  ensign  hung, 
Or,  swelling  with  the  swelling  breeze,  by  fits 
Cast  off,  upon  the  dewy  air,  huge  flakes 
Of  golden  lustre.      Over  all  the  hill, 
The  heavenly  legions,  the  assembled  world, 
Evening  her  crimson  tint  forever  drew. 

Round  I  gazed 

Where,  in  the  purple  west,  no  more  to  dawn, 
Faded  the  glories  of  the  dying  day. 
Mild-twinkling  through  a  crimson-skirted  cloud, 
The  solitary  star  of  evening  shone. 
While  gazing  wistful  on  that  peerless  light, 
Thereafter  to  be  seen  no  more  (as  oft 
In  dreams  strange  images  will  mix),  sad  thoughts 
Passed  o'er  my  soul.      Sorrowing  I  cried,  "  Farewell, 
Pale,  beauteous  planet,  that  display'st  so  soft, 
Amid  yon  glowing  streak,  thy  transient  beam — 


EVERETT.  65 

A  long,  a  last  farewell !     Seasons  have  changed, 
Ages  and  empires  rolled,  like  smoke,  away ; 
But  thou,  unaltered,  beam'st  as  silver  fair 
As  on  thy  birthnight !     Bright  and  watchful  eyes, 
From  palaces  and  bowers,  have  hailed  thy  gem 
With  secret  transport !     Natal  star  of  love, 
And  souls  that  love  the  shadowy  hour  of  fancy, 
How  much  I  owe  thee,  how  I  bless  thy  ray  ! 
How  oft  thy  rising  o'er  the  hamlet  green, 
Signal  of  rest,  and  social  converse  sweet, 
Beneath  some  patriarchal  tree,  has  cheered 
The  peasant's  heart,  and  drawn  his  benison  ! 
Pride  of  the  West !  beneath  thy  placid  light 
The  tender  tale  shall  never  more  be  told — 
Man's  soul  shall  never  wake  to  joy  again  : 
Thou  set'st  forever — lovely  orb,  farewell !" 


THE     YOUNG     AMERICAN. 

OCION  of  a  mighty  stock  ! 
^  Hands  of  iron — hearts  of  oak — 
Follow  with  unflinching  tread 
Where  the  noble  fathers  led. 

Craft  and  subtle  treachery, 
Gallant  youth  !  are  not  for  thee  : 
Follow  thou  in  word  and  deeds 
Where  the  God  within  thee  leads. 


66  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

Honesty  with  steady  eye, 
Truth  and  pure  simplicity, 
Love  that  gently  winneth  hearts, 
These  shall  be  thy  only  arts — 

Prudent  in  the  council-train, 
Dauntless  on  the  battle-plain, 
Ready  at  the  country's  need 
For  her  glorious  cause  to  bleed. 

Where  the  dews  of  night  distil 
Upon  Vernon's  holy  hill ; 
Where  above  it,  gleaming  far, 
Freedom  lights  her  guiding  star — 

Thither  turn  the  steady  eye, 
Flashing  with  a  purpose  high ; 
Thither  with  devotion  meet 
Often  turn  the  pilgrim  feet. 

Let  thy  noble  motto  be, 

"  GOD — the  COUNTRY — LIBERTY  !: 

Planted  on  Religion's  rock, 
Thou  shalt  stand  in  every  shock. 

Laugh  at  danger,  far  or  near ; 
Spurn  at  baseness — spurn  at  fear ; 
*  Still,  with  persevering  might, 

Speak  the  truth,  and  do  the  right. 

So  shall  Peace,  a  charming  guest, 
Dove-like  in  thy  bosom  rest ; 
So  shall  Honour's  steady  blaze 
Beam  upon  thy  closing  days. 


SMITH.  67 


Happy  if  celestial  favour 
Smile  upon  the  high  endeavour : 
Happy  if  it  be  thy  call 
In  the  holy  cause  to  fall. 


Stba  Smitl). 

THE     BURNING     SHIP     AT     SEA. 

^  •  ^HE  night  was  clear  and  mild, 
•*•       And  the  breeze  went  softly  by, 
And  the  stars  of  heaven  smiled 

As  they  wandered  up  the  sky ; 
And  there  rode  a  gallant  ship  on  the  wave- 
But  many  a  hapless  wight 
Slept  the  sleep  of  death  that  night, 
And  before  the  morning  light 

Found  a  grave  ! 

All  were  sunk  in  soft  repose, 

Save  the  watch  upon  the  deck : 
Not  a  boding  dream  arose 

Of  the  horrors  of  the  wreck, 
To  the  mother,  or  the  child,  or  the  sire ; 
Till  a  shriek  of  woe  profound, 
Like  a  death-knell  echoed  round — 
With  a  wild  and  dismal  sound, 

A  shriek  of  "Fire!" 

Now  the  flames  are  spreading  fast — 
With  resistless  rage  they  fly, 


68  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Up  the  shrouds  and  up  the  mast, 
And  are  flickering  to  the  sky ; 
Now  the  deck  is  all  a-blaze ;   now  the  rails — 
There's  no  place  to  rest  their  feet ; 
Fore  and  aft  the  torches  meet, 
And  a  winged  lightning-sheet 
i  Are  the  sails. 

No  one  heard  the  cry  of  woe 

But  the  sea-bird  that  flew  by ; 
There  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 

But  no  hand  to  save  was  nigh ; 
Still  before  the  burning  foe  they  were  driven — 
Last  farewells  were  uttered  there, 
With  a  wild  and  frenzied  stare, 
And  a  short  and  broken  prayer 

Sent  to  Heaven. 

Some  leap  over  in  the  flood 

To  the  death  that  waits  them  there ; 
Others  quench  the  flames  with  blood, 

And  expire  in  open  air ; 
Some,  a  moment  to  escape  from  the  grave, 
On  the  bowsprit  take  a  stand ; 
But  their  death  is  near  at  hand — 
Soon  they  hug  the  burning  brand 
On  the  wave. 

From  his  briny  ocean-bed, 

When  the  morning  sun  awoke, 

Lo,  that  gallant  ship  had  fled  ! 
And  a  sable  cloud  of  smoke 
Was  the  monumental  pyre  that  remained ; 


SPRAGUE.  69 

But  the  sea  gulls  round  it  fly, 
With  a  quick  and  fearful  cry, 
And  the  brands  that  floated  by 

Blood  had  stained. 


G 


SHAKSPEARE     ODE. 

OD  of  the  glorious  lyre  ! 

Whose  notes  of  old  on  lofty  Pindus  rang, 
While  Jove's  exulting  choir 
Caught  the  glad  echoes  and  responsive  sang — 
Come  !  bless  the  service  and  the  shrine 
We  consecrate  to  thee  and  thine. 

Fierce  from  the  frozen  North, 
When  Havoc  led  his  legions  forth,  [spread  : 

O'er  Learning's  sunny  groves   the   dark   destroyer 
In  dust  the  sacred  statue  slept, 
Fair  Science  round  her  altars  wept, 

And  Wisdom  cowled  his  head. 

At  length,  Olympian  lord  of  morn, 
The  raven  veil  of  night  was  torn, 

When,  through  golden  clouds  descending, 
Thou  didst  hold  thy  radiant  flight, 

O'er  Nature's  lovely  pageant  bending, 
Till  Avon  rolled,  all  sparkling  to  thy  sight ! 

There,  on  its  bank,  beneath  the  mulberry's  shade, 
Wrapped  in  young  dreams,  a  wild-eyed  minstrel  strayed. 


?o  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Lighting  there  and  lingering  long, 
Thou  didst  teach  the  bard  his  song; 

Thy  fingers  strung  his  sleeping  shell, 
And  round  his  brows  a  garland  curled  ,• 

On  his  lips  thy  spirit  fell, 
And  bade  him  wake  and  warm  the  world ! 

Then  SHAKSPEARE  rose  ! 
Across  the  trembling  strings 
His  daring  hand  he  flings, 
And,  lo  !  a  new  creation  glows  ! 
There,  clustering  round,  submissive  to  his  will, 
Fate's  vassal  train  his  high  commands  fulfil. 

Madness,  with  his  frightful  scream, 
Vengeance,  leaning  on  his  lance, 
Avarice,  with  his  blade  and  beam, 
Hatred,  blasting  with  a  glance ; 
Remorse,  that  weeps,  and  Rage,  that  roars, 
And  Jealousy,  that   dotes,  but  dooms,  and  murders,  yet 
adores. 

Mirth,  his  face  with  sun-beams  lit, 
Waking  Laughter's  merry  swell, 
Arm  in  arm  with  fresh-eyed  Wit, 
That  waves  his  tingling  lash,  while  FoWy  shakes  his  bell. 

Despair,  that  haunts  the  gurgling  stream, 
Kissed  by  the  virgin  moon's  cold  beam, 
Where  some  lost  maid  wild  chaplets  wreathes, 
And,  swan-like,  -there  her  own  dirge  breathes, 
Then,  broken-hearted,  sinks  to  rest, 
Beneath  the  bubbling  wave,  that  shrouds  her  maniac  breast. 


SPRAGUE.  71 

Young  Love,  with  eye  of  tender  gloom, 
Now  drooping  o'er  the  hallowed  tomb 

Where  his  plighted  victims  lie — 

Where  they  met,  but  met  to  die : 
And  now,  when  crimson  buds  are  sleeping, 
Through  the  dewy  arbour  peeping, 
Where  Beauty's  child,  the  frowning  world  forgot, 
To  youth's  devoted  tale  is  listening, 
Rapture  on  her  dark  lash  glistening,  [spot. 

While  fairies  leave  their  cowslip  cells  and  guard  the  happy 

Thus  rise  the  phantom  throng, 
Obedient  to  their  master's  song, 

And  lead  in  willing  chain  the  wandering  soul  along. 

For  other  worlds  War's  Great  One  sighed  in  vain — 

O'er  other  worlds  see  SHAKSPEARE  rove  and  reign  ! 

The  rapt  magician  of  his  own  wild  lay, 

Earth  and  her  tribes  his  mystic  wand  obey. 

Old  Ocean  trembles,  Thunder  cracks  the  skies, 

Air  teems  with  shapes,  and  tell-tale  spectres  rise ; 

Night's  paltering  hags  their  fearful  orgies  keep, 

And  faithless  Guilt  unseals  the  lip  of  Sleep ; 

Time  yields  his  trophies  up,  and  Death  restores 

The  mouldered  victims  of  his  voiceless  shores. 
The  fireside  legend,  and  the  faded  page, 
The  crime  that  cursed,  the  deed  that  blest  an  age, 
All,  all  come  forth — the  good  to  charm  and  cheer, 
To  scourge  bold  Vice,  and  start  the  generous  tear ; 
With  pictured  Folly  gazing  fools  to  shame, 

And  guide  young  Glory's  foot  along  the  path  of  Fame. 

Lo  !  hand  in  hand, 
Hell's  juggling  sisters  stand, 


72  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

To  greet  their  victim  from  the  fight ; 

Grouped  on  the  blasted  heath, 
They  tempt  him  to  the  work  of  death, 
Then  melt  in  air,  and  mock  his  wondering  sight. 
In  midnight's  hallowed  hour 
He  seeks  the  fatal  tower, 
Where  the  lone  raven,  perched  on  high, 
Pours  to  the  sullen  gale 
Her  hoarse,  prophetic  wail, 
And  croaks  the  dreadful  moment  nigh. 
See,  by  the  phantom  dagger  led, 

Pale,  guilty  thing, 
Slowly  he  steals  with  silent  tread, 
And  grasps  his  coward  steel  to  smite  his  sleeping  king. 

Hark  !  'tis  the  signal  bell, 
Struck  by  that  bold  and  unsexed  one, 
Whose  milk  is  gall,  whose  heart  is  stone ; 
His  ear  hath  caught  the  knell — 

'Tis  done  !   'tis  done  ! 
Behold  him  from  the  chamber  rushing, 
Where  his  dead  monarch's  blood  is  gushing : 
Look,  where  he  trembling  stands, 

Sad,  gazing  there, 

Life's  smoking  crimson  on  his  hands, 
And  in  his  felon  heart  the  worm  of  wild  despair. 

Mark  the  sceptred  traitor  slumbering ! 

There  flit  the  slaves  of  Conscience  round, 
With  boding  tongues  foul  murderers  numbering; 

Sleep's  leaden  portals  catch  the  sound. 
In  his  dream  of  blood  for  mercy  quaking, 
At  his  own  dull  scream  behold  him  waking ! 


SPRAGUE.  73 

Soon  that  dream  to  fate  shall  turn, 

For  him  the  living  furies  burn ; 
For  him  the  vulture  sits  on  yonder  misty  peak, 
And  chides  the  lagging  Night,  and  whets  her  hungry  beak. 

Hark  !  the  trumpet's  warning  breath 

Echoes  round  the  vale  of  death. 

Unhorsed,  unhelmed,  disdaining  shield, 

The  panting  tyrant  scours  the  field. 
Vengeance  !  he  meets  thy  dooming  blade  ! 

The  scourge  of  earth,  the  scorn  of  heaven, 

He  falls !   unwept  and  unforgiven, 
And  all  his  guilty  glories  fade. 
Like  a  crushed  reptile  in  the  dust  he  lies, 
And  hate's  last  lightning  quivers  from  his  eyes  ! 

Behold  yon  crownless  king — 

Yon  white-locked,  weeping  sire — 
Where  heaven's  unpillared  chambers  ring, 

And  burst  their  streams  of  flood  arid  fire  ! 
He  gave  them  all — the  daughters  of  his  love : 
That  recreant  pair !   they  drive  him  forth  to  rove ; 

In  such  a  night  of  woe, 
The  cubless  regent  of  the  wood 
Forgets  to  bathe  her  fangs  in  blood, 
And  caverns  with  her  foe  ! 
Yet  one  was  ever  kind : 
Why  lingers  she  behind  ? 

O  pity  ! — view  him  by  her  dead  form  kneeling, 
Even  in  wild  frenzy  holy  nature  feeling. 
His  aching  eyeballs  strain, 

To  see  those  curtained  orbs  unfold, 
That  beauteous  bosom  heave  again  : 
But  all  is  dark  and  cold. 


74  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

In  agony  the  father  shakes ; 
Grief's  choking  note 
Swells  in  his  throat ; 

Each  withered  heart-string  tugs  and  breaks ! 
Round  her  pale  neck  his  dying  arms  he  wreathes, 
And  on  her  marble  lips  his  last,  his  death-kiss  breathes. 

Down  !  trembling  wing :  shall  insect  weakness  keep 

The  sun-defying  eagle's  sweep  ? 

A  mortal  strike  celestial  strings, 
And  feebly  echo  what  a  seraph  sings  ? 

Who  now  shall  grace  the  glowing  throne, 

Where,  all  unrivalled,  all  alone, 
Bold  SHAKSPEARE  sat,  and  looked  creation  through, 
The  minstrel  monarch  of  the  worlds  he  drew  ? 

That  throne  is  cold — that  lyre  in  death  unstrung, 
On  whose  proud  note  delighted  Wonder  hung. 
Yet  old  Oblivion,  as  in  wrath  he  sweeps, 
One  spot  shall  spare — the  grave  where  SHAKSPEARE  sleeps. 
Rulers  and  ruled  in  common  gloom  may  lie, 
But  Nature's  laureate  bards  shall  never  die. 
Art's  chiselled  boast  and  Glory's  trophied  shore 
Must  live  in  numbers,  or  can  live  no  more. 
While  sculptured  Jove  some  nameless  waste  may  claim, 
Still  roars  the  Olympic  car  in  Pindar's  fame : 
Troy's  doubtful  walls,  in  ashes  passed  away, 
Yet  frown  on  Greece  in  Homer's  deathless  lay ; 
Rome,  slowly  sinking  in  her  crumbling  fanes, 
Stands  all  immortal  in  her  Maro's  strains ; 
So,  too,  yon  giant  empress  of  the  isles, 
On  whose  broad  sway  the  sun  forever  smiles, 


SPEAGUE.  75 

To  Time's  unsparing  rage  one  day  must  bend, 
And  all  her  triumphs  in  her  SHAKSPEARE  end ! 

O  thou  !  to  whose  creative  power 

We  dedicate  the  festal  hour, 

While  Grace  and  Goodness  round  the  altar  stand, 
Learning's  anointed  train,  and  Beauty's  rose-lipped  band — 
Realms  yet  unborn,  in  accents  now  unknown, 
Thy  song  shall  learn,  and  bless  it  for  their  own. 
Deep  in  the  West,  as  Independence  roves, 
His  banners  planting  round  the  land  he  loves, 
Where  Nature  sleeps  in  Eden's  infant  grace, 
In  Time's  full  hour  shall  spring  a  glorious  race  : 
Thy  name,  thy  verse,  thy  language  shall  they  bear, 
And  deck  for  thee  the  vaulted  temple  there. 

Our  Roman-hearted  fathers  broke 

Thy  parent  empire's  galling  yoke ; 

But  thou,  harmonious  monarch  of  the  mind, 

Around  their  sons  a  gentler  chain  shall  bind ; 

Still  o'er  our  land  shall  Albion's  sceptre  wave, 

And  what  her  mighty  lion  lost,  her  mightier  swan  shall 

save. 


THE     FAMILY     MEETING. 

VK7E  are  all  here  ! 
Father,  mother, 

Sister,  brother, 

All  who  hold  each  other  dear ; 
Each  chair  is  filled — we're  all  at  home ; 
To-night  let  no  cold  stranger  come  : 


GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

It  is  not  often  thus  around 
Our  old  familiar  hearth  we're  found : 
Bless,  then,  the  meeting  and  the  spot, 
For  once  be  every  care  forgot ; 
Let  gentle  Peace  assert  her  power, 
And  kind  Affection  rule  the  hour ; 
We're  all— all  here. 

We're  not  all  here  ! 
Some  are  away — the  dead  ones  dear, 
Who  thronged  with  us  this  ancient  hearth, 
And  gave  the  hour  to  guiltless  mirth. 
Fate,  with  a  stern,  relentless  hand, 
Looked  in  and  thinned  our  little  band : 
Some  like  a  night-flash  passed  away, 
And  some  sank,  lingering,  day  by  day ; 
The  quiet  graveyard — some  lie  there — 
And  cruel  Ocean  has  his  share — 

We're  not  all  here. 

We  are  all  here  ! 

Even  they — the  dead — though  dead,  so  dear ; 
Fond  Memory,  to  her  duty  true, 
Brings  back  their  faded  forms  to  view. 
How  life-like,  through  the  mist  of  years, 
Each  well-remembered  face  appears  ! 
We  see  them  as  in  times  long  past ; 
From  each  to  each  kind  looks  are  cast; 
We  hear  their  words,  their  smiles  behold ; 
They're  round  us  as  they  were  of  old — 

We  are  all  here. 


SPRAGUE.  77 

We  are  all  here  ! 

Father,  mother, 

Sister,  brother, 

You  that  I  love  with  love  so  dear. 
This  may  not  long  of  us  be  said ; 
Soon  must  we  join  the  gathered  dead; 
And  by  the  hearth  we  now  sit  round, 
Some  other  circle  will  be  found. 
Oh  !   then,  that  wisdom  may  we  know, 
Which  yields  a  life  of  peace  below ! 
So,  in  the  world  to  follow  this, 
May  each  repeat,  in  words  of  bliss, 

"  We're  all— all  htrt!n 


ART* 

,  from  the  sacred  garden  driven, 
Man  fled  before  his  Maker's  wrath, 
An  angel  left  her  place  in  heaven, 

And  crossed  the  wanderer's  sunless  path. 
'Twas  Art !  sweet  Art ! — new  radiance  broke 
Where  her  light  foot  flew  o'er  the  ground, 
And  thus  with  seraph-voice  she  spoke : 
"The  curse  a  blessing  shall  be  found." 

She  led  him  through  the  trackless  wild, 
Where  noontide  sunbeam  never  blazed ; 

The  thistle  shrank,  the  harvest  smiled, 
And  Nature  gladdened  as  she  gazed. 

Earth's  thousand  tribes  of  living  things, 
At  Art's  command,  to  him  are  given ; 
5 


/'8  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

The  village  grows,  the  city  springs, 

And  point  their  spires  of  faith  to  heaven. 

He  rends  the  oak — and  bids  it  ride, 

To  guard  the  shores  its  beauty  graced ; 
He  smites  the  rock — upheaved  in  pride, 

See  towers  of  strength  and  domes  of  taste  ! 
Earth's  teeming  caves  their  wealth  reveal ; 

Fire  bears  his  banner  on  the  wave ; 
He  bids  the  mortal  poison  heal, 

And  leaps  triumphant  o'er  the  grave. 

He  plucks  the  pearls  that  stud  the  deep, 

Admiring  Beauty's  lap  to  fill ; 
He  breaks  the  stubborn  marble's  sleep, 

And  mocks  his  own  Creator's  skill. 
With  thoughts  that  fill  his  glowing  soul, 

He  bids  the  ore  illume  the  page, 
And,  proudly  scorning  Time's  control, 

Commerces  with  an  unborn  age. 

In  fields  of  air  he  writes  his  name, 

And  treads  the  chambers  of  the  sky ; 
He  reads  the  stars,  and  grasps  the  flame 

That  quivers  round  the  throne  on  high. 
In  war  renowned,  in  peace  sublime, 

He  moves  in  greatness  and  in  grace ; 
His  power,  subduing  space  and  time, 

Links  realm  to  realm,  and  race  to  race. 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY.  79 

$untleg  Sujournej). 

THE      PILGRIM      FATHERS. 

T  TOW  slow  yon  lonely  vessel  ploughs  the  main  ! 

Amid  the  heavy  billows  now  she  seems 
A  toiling  atom  :   then  from  wave  to  wave 
Leaps  madly,  by  the  tempest  lashed,  or  reels 
Half  wrecked  through  gulfs  profound.   Moons  wax  and  wane, 
But  still  that  patient  traveller  treads  the  deep. 
— I  see  an  icebound  coast  toward  which  she  steers 
With  such  a  tardy  movement,  that  it  seems 
Stern  Winter's  hand  hath  turned  her  keel  to  stone, 
And  sealed  his  victory  on  her  slippery  shrouds. 
— They  land  !  they  land  !  not  like  the  Genoese, 
With  glittering  sword,  and  gaudy  train,  and  eye 
Kindling  with  golden  fancies.      Forth  they  come 
From  their  long  prison,  hardy  forms  that  brave 
The  world's  unkindness,  men  of  hoary  hair, 
Maidens  of  fearless  heart,  and  matrons  grave, 
Who  hush  the  wailing  infant  with  a  glance. 
Bleak  Nature's  desolation  wraps  them  round, — 
Eternal  forests,  and  unyielding  earth, 
And  savage  men,  who  through  the  thickets  peer 
With  vengeful  arrow.      What  could  lure  their  steps 
To  this  drear  desert !     Ask  of  him  who  left 
His  father's  home  to  roam  through  Haran's  wilds, 
Distrusting  not  the  guide  who  called  him  forth, 
Nor  doubting,  though  a  stranger,  that  his  seed 
Should  be  as  ocean's  sands.      But  yon  lone  bark 
Hath  spread  her  parting  sail ;  thev  crowd  the  strand, 


8o  GOLDEN  LEAVES, 

Those  few,  lone  pilgrims.      Can  ye  scan  the  woe 

That  wrings  their  bosoms,  as  the  last  frail  link, 

Binding  to  man  and  habitable  earth, 

Is  severed  ?     Can  ye  tell  what  pangs  were  there, 

With  keen  regrets ;  what  sickness  of  the  heart ; 

What  yearnings  o'er  their  forfeit  land  of  birth, 

Their  distant  dear  ones  ?     Long,  with  straining  eye, 

They  watch  the  lessening  speck.      Heard  ye  no  shriek 

Of  anguish,  when  that  bitter  loneliness 

Sank  down  into  their  bosoms  ?     No  !   they  turn 

Back  to  their  dreary,  famished  huts,  and  pray  ! 

Pray,  and  the  ills  that  haunt  this  transient  life 

Fade  into  air.      Up  in  each  girded  breast 

There  sprang  a  rooted  and  mysterious  strength, — 

A  loftiness  to  face  a  world  in  arms, 

To  strip  the  pomp  from  sceptres,  and  to  lay 

On  Duty's  sacred  altar  the  warm  blood 

Of  slain  affections,  should  they  rise  between 

The  soul  and  GOD.      O  ye,  who  proudly  boast 

In  your  free  veins  the  blood  of  sires  like  these, 

Look  to  their  lineaments.      Dread  lest  ye  lose 

Their  likeness  in  your  sons.      Should  Mammon  cling 

Too  close  around  your  heart,  or  wealth  beget 

That  bloated  luxury  which  eats  the  core 

From  manly  virtue,  or  the  tempting  world 

Make  faint  the  Christian  purpose  in  your  soul, 

Turn  ye  to  Plymouth  Rock,  and  where  they  knelt 

Kneel,  and  renew  the  vow  they  breathed  to  God. 


MR  S.    SI  G  OUR  NE  Y.  8 1 


NIAGARA. 

T^LOW  on,  forever,  in  thy  glorious  robe 
•*•      Of  terror  and  of  beauty  !     Yea,  flow  on, 
Unfathomed  arid  resistless  !      God  hath  set 
His  rainbow  on  thy  forehead,  and  the  cloud 
Mantled  around  thy  feet.      And  He  doth  give 
Thy  voice  of  thunder  power  to  speak  of  Him 
Eternally — bidding  the  lip  of  man 
Keep  silence — and  upon  thy  rocky  altar  pour 
Incense  of  awe-struck  praise.      Ah  !   who  can  dare 
To  lift  the  insect  trump  of  earthly  hope, 
Or  love,  or  sorrow,  mid  the  peal  sublime 
Of  thy  tremendous  hymn  ?     Even  Ocean  shrinks 
Back  from  thy  brotherhood  :   and  all  his  waves 
Retire  abashed.      For  he  doth  sometimes  seem 
To  sleep  like  a  spent  labourer,  and  recall 
His  wearied  billows  from  their  vexing  play, 
And  lull  them  to  a  cradle  calm  :  but  thou, 
With  everlasting,  undecaying  tide, 
Dost  rest  not,  night  or  day.     The  morning  stars, 
When  first  they  sang  o'er  young  Creation's  birth, 
Heard  thy  deep  anthem  ;  and  those  wrecking  fires, 
That  wait  the  archangel's  signal  to  dissolve 
This  solid  earth,  shall  find  JEHOVAH'S  name 
Graven,  as  with  a  thousand  diamond  spears, 
Of  thine  unending  volume.      Every  leaf, 
That  lifts  itself  within  thy  wide  domain, 
Doth  gather  greenness  from  thy  living  spray, 
Yet  tremble  at  the  baptism.      Lo  !   yon  birds 
Do  boldly  venture  near,  and  bathe  their  wing 


82  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Amid  thy  mist  and  foam.     'Tis  meet  for  them 

To  touch  thy  garment's  hem,  and  lightly  stir 

The  snowy  leaflets  of  thy  vapour  wreath, 

For  they  may  sport  unharmed  amid  the  cloud, 

Or  listen  at  the  echoing  gate  of  heaven, 

Without  reproof.      But  as  for  us,  it  seems 

Scarce  lawful,  with  our  broken  tones,  to  speak 

Familiarly  of  thee.      Methinks,  to  tint 

Thy  glorious  features  with  our  pencil's  point, 

Or  woo  thee  to  the  tablet  of  a  song, 

Were  profanation.      Thou  dost  make  the  soul 

A  wondering  witness  of  thy  majesty ; 

But  as  it  presses  with  delirious  joy 

To  pierce  thy  vestibule,  dost  chain  its  step, 

And  tame  its  rapture,  with  the  humbling  view 

Of  its  own  nothingness,  bidding  it  stand 

In  the  dread  presence  of  the  Invisible, 

As  if  to  answer  to  its  God  through  thee. 


THE     CORAL  -INSECT. 

'  I  "*OIL  on  !  toil  on  !  ye  ephemeral  train, 

Who  build  in  the  tossing  and  treacherous  main ; 
Toil  on — for  the  wisdom  of  man  ye  mock, 
With  your  sand-based  structures  and  domes  of  rock : 
Your  columns  the  fathomless  fountains  lave, 
And  your  arches  spring  up  to  the  crested  wave ; 
Ye're  a  puny  race,  thus  to  boldly  rear 
A  fabric  so  vast,  in  a  realm  so  drear. 

Ye  bind  the  deep  with  your  secret  zone, 
The  ocean  is  sealed,  and  the  surge  a  stone ; 


MKS.    SIGOURNEY.  83 

Fresh  wreaths  from  the  coral  pavement  spring, 

Like  the  terraced  pride  of  Assyria's  king ; 

The  turf  looks  green  where  the  breakers  rolled ; 

O'er  the  whirlpool  ripens  the  rind  of  gold ; 

The  sea-snatched  isle  is  the  home  of  men, 

And  the  mountains  exult  where  the  wave  hath  been. 

But  why  do  ye  plant  'neath  the  billows  dark 
The  wrecking  reef  for  the  gallant  bark  ? 
There  are  snares  enough  on  the  tented  field, 
'Mid  the  blossomed  sweets  that  the  valleys  yield ; 
There  are  serpents  to  coil,  ere  the  flowers  are  up ; 
There's  a  poison-drop  in  man's  purest  cup ; 
There  are  foes  that  watch  for  his  cradle-breath, 
And  why  need  ye  sow  the  floods  with  death  ? 

With  mouldering  bones  the  deeps  are  white, 
From  the  ice-clad  pole  to  the  tropics  bright ; 
The  mermaid  hath  twisted  her  fingers  cold 
With  the  mesh  of  the  sea-boy's  curls  of  gold, 
And  the  gods  of  Ocean  have  frowned  to  see 
The  mariner's  bed  in  their  halls  of  glee ; 
Hath  Earth  no  graves,  that  ye  thus  must  spread 
The  boundless  Sea  for  the  thronging  dead  ? 

Ye  build — ye  build — but  ye  enter  not  in, 

Like  the  tribes  whom  the  desert  devoured  in  their  sin ; 

From  the  land  of  promise  ye  fade  and  die, 

Ere  its  verdure  gleams  forth  on  your  weary  eye ; 

As  the  kings  of  the  cloud-crowned  pyramid, 

Their  noteless  bones  in  oblivion  hid, 

Ye  slumber  unmarked  'mid  the  desolate  main, 

While  the  wonder  and  pride  of  your  works  remain. 


84  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 


tUtlltam  (Sullen  Brgant 

TH  AN  ATOPSIS. 

^  I  *O  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 

Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language ;   for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty ;   and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.      When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart ; — 
Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around  — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 
Comes  a  still  voice :   Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  Sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course ;   nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  is  laid  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  Ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.      Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, — 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 


BRYANT.  85 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.      The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone — nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.      Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers,  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre. — The  hills 
Rock-ribbed,  and  ancient  as  the  sun, — the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 
The  venerable  woods, — rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green ;  and,  poured  round  all, 
Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.      The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.      All  that  tread 
The  globe,  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  and  the  Barcan  desert  pierce — 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 
Save  his  own  dashings — yet  the  dead  are  there  ; 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  there  reign  alone. 

So  shalt  thou  rest, — and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
Unheeded  by  the  living,  and  no  friend 


86  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.      The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 
His  favourite  phantom ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.      As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, — 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 
And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man, — 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
By  those  who,  in  their  turn,  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that,  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  that  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  Death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave,  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  that  draws  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


FOREST     HYMN. 

E  groves  were  .GOD'S  first  temples.    Ere  man  learned 
•*•     To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 
And  spread  the  roof  above  them, — ere  he  framed 
The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 
The  sound  of  anthems ;  in  the  darkling  wood, 
Amid  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down, 


BRYANT.  87 

And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks, 

And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 

Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences, 

Which,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place, 

And  from  the  gray  old  trunks,  that  high  in  heaven 

Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 

Of  the  invisible  breath,  that  swayed  at  once 

All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bowed 

His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  power, 

And  inaccessible  majesty.     Ah,  why 

Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 

God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 

Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 

That  our  frail  hands  have  raised  ?     Let  me,  at  least, 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood, 

Offer  one  hymn — thrice  happy,  if  it  find 

Acceptance  in  His  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 

Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns ;   Thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.      Thou  didst  look  down 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and  forthwith  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     They,  in  thy  sun, 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  thy  breeze, 
And  shot  towards  heaven.      The  century-living  crow, 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches;  till,  at  last,  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and  dark — 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker.      These  dim  vaults, 
These  winding  aisles,  of  human  pomp  or  pride 
Report  not.     No  fantastic  carvings  show, 
The  boast  of  our  vain  race,  to  change  the  form 


88  G  OLD  EN  LE  A  VE  ,S'. 

Of  thy  fair  works.      But  Thou  art  here — Thou  fill'st 
The  solitude.     Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds, 
That  run  along  the  summit  of  these  trees 
In  music ; — Thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath, 
That,  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place, 
Comes,  scarcely  felt ; — the  barky  trunks,  the  ground, 
The  fresh,  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with  Thee. 
Here  is  continual  worship ; — Nature,  here, 
In  the  tranquillity  that  Thou  dost  love, 
Enjoys  thy  presence.      Noiselessly  around, 
From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 
Passes ;   and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  midst  its  herbs, 
Wells  softly  forth,  and  visits  the  strong  roots 
Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 
Of  all  the  good  it  does.      Thou  hast  not  left 
Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades, 
Of  thy  perfections.      Grandeur,  strength,  and  grace, 
Are  here  to  speak  of  Thee.      This  mighty  oak, 
By  whose  immovable  stem  I  stand,  and  seem 
Almost  annihilated, — not  a  prince, 
In  all  that  proud  Old  World  beyond  the  deep, 
E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 
Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves  with  which 
Thy  hand  has  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his  root 
Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 
Of  the  broad  sun.      That  delicate  forest  flower, 
With  delicate  breath,  and  look  so  like  a  smile, 
Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould, 
An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 
A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 
That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  universe. 
My  heart  is  awed  within  me,  when  I  think 


BRYANT.  89 

Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on 
In  silence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finished  yet  renewed 
Forever.      Written  on  thy  works,  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo  !   all  grow  old  and  die — but  see,  again, 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  Decay 
Youth  presses — ever  gay  and  beautiful  Youth, 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms.      These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them.      Oh,  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  Earth's  charms :  upon  her  bosom  yet, 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries, 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies, 
And  yet  shall  lie.      Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch-enemy,  Death — yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  tyrant's  throne — the  sepulchre, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.      For  he  came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 

There  have  been  holy  men  who  hid  themselves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they  outlived 
The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seemed 
Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them  ; — and  there  have  been  holy  men 
Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 
But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Retire,  and  in  thy  presence  reassure 
My  feeble  virtue.      Here  its  enemies, 
The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps  shrink, 
And  tremble  and  are  still.      O  God  !   when  Thou 


90  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill, 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament, 
The  swift,  dark  whirlwind  that  uproots  the  woods 
And  drowns  the  villages ;  when,  at  thy  call, 
Uprises  the  great  Deep  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities — who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies  by  ? 
Oh,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine,  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 
Of  the  mad,  unchained  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.      Be  it  ours  to  meditate 
In  these  calm  shades  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 


THE     DEATH     OF     THE     FLOWERS. 

'TpHE  melancholy  days   are   come,   the  saddest  of  the 
•*        year, 
Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  meadows  brown 

and  sere. 
Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  autumn  leaves  lie 

dead; 

They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's  tread. 
The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrubs 

the  jay, 
And   from   the  wood-top   calls   the   crow  through  all  the 

gloomy  day. 


BRYANT.  91 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers  that  lately 

sprang  and  stood 

In  brighter  light,  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sisterhood  ? 
Alas  !    they   all   are  in    their  graves ;    the  gentle   race   of 

flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and  good  of 

ours. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie ;  but  the  cold  November 

rain 
Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely  ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long  ago, 
And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  summer 

glow; 

But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in  the  wood, 
And  the  yellow  sun-flower  by  the  brook,  in  autumn  beauty 

stood — 
Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as  falls  the 

plague  on  men, 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone,  from  upland, 

glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild   day,  as  still  such 

days  will  come, 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter 

home; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all  the 

trees  are  still, 

And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill, 
The  South  Wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fragrance 

late  he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream  no 

more. 


9  *  G  OLDEN   LE  A  V  K  S. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty  died, 
The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my  side. 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the  forests  cast 

the  leaf, 

And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a  life  so  brief ; 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one  like  that  young  friend  of 

ours, 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the  flowers. 


THE     ANTIQJJITY     OF     FREEDOM. 

FREEDOM  !  thou  art  not,  as  poets  dream, 
A  fair  young  girl,  with  light  and  delicate  limbs, 
And  wavy  tresses  gushing  from  the  cap 
With  which  the  Roman  master  crowned  his  slave 
When  he  took  off  the  gyves.      A  bearded  man, 
Armed  to  the  teeth,  art  thou ;  one  mailed  hand 
Grasps  the  broad  shield,  and  one  the  sword ;  thy  brow, 
Glorious  in  beauty  though  it  be,  is  scarred 
With  tokens  of  old  wars ;   thy  massive  limbs 
Are  strong  with  struggling.     Power  at  thee  has  launched 
His  bolts,  and  with  his  lightnings  smitten  thee ; 
They  could  not  quench  the  life  thou  hast  from  Heaven. 
Merciless  Power  has  dug  thy  dungeon  deep, 
And  his  swart  armourers,  by  a  thousand  fires, 
Have  forged  thy  chain ;  yet,  while  he  deems  thee  bound, 
The  links  are  shivered,  and  the  prison-walls 
Fall  outward  :   terribly  thou  springest  forth, 
As  springs  the  flame  above  a  burning  pile, 
And  shoutest  to  the  nations,  who  return 
Thy  shoutings,  while  the  pale  oppressor  flies. 


BRYANT.  93 

Thy  birthright  was  not  given  by  human  hands : 
Thou  wert  twin-born  with  man.      In  pleasant  fields, 
While  yet  our  race  was  few,  thou  sat'st  with  him, 
To  tend  the  quiet  flock  and  watch  the  stars, 
And  teach  the  reed  to  utter  simple  airs. 
Thou  by  his  side,  amid  the  tangled  wood, 
Didst  war  upon  the  panther  and  the  wolf, 
His  only  foes ;  and  thou  with  him  didst  draw 
The  earliest  furrow  on  the  mountain-side, 
Soft  with  the  deluge.      Tyranny  himself, 
Thy  enemy,  although  of  reverend  look, 
Hoary  with  many  years,  and  far  obeyed, 
Is  later  born  than  thou ;  and  as  he  meets 
The  grave  defiance  of  thine  elder  eye, 
The  usurper  trembles  in  his  fastnesses. 

Thou  shalt  wax  stronger  with  the  lapse  of  years, 
But  he  shall  fade  into  a  feebler  age ; 
Feebler,  yet  subtler.     He  shall  weave  his  snares, 
And  spring  them  on  thy  careless  steps,  and  clap 
His  withered  hands,  and  from  their  ambush  call 
His  hordes  to  fall  upon  thee.      He  shall  send 
Quaint  maskers,  wearing  fair  and  gallant  forms, 
To  catch  thy  gaze,  and  uttering  graceful  words 
To  charm  thy  ear ;   while  his  sly  imps,  by  stealth, 
Twine  round  thee  threads  of  steel,  light  thread  on  thread, 
That  grow  to  fetters ;   or  bind  down  thy  arms 
With  chains  concealed  in  chaplets.      Oh  !   not  yet 
Mayst  thou  unbrace  thy  corselet,  nor  lay  by 
Thy  sword ;  nor  yet,  O  Freedom  !   close  thy  lids 
In  slumber ;  for  thine  enemy  never  sleeps, 
And  thou  must  watch  and  combat  till  the  day 
Of  the  new  earth  and  heaven. 


94  G  OLDEN   LEAVES. 


TO     A     WATERFOWL. 

^IT7HITHER,  'midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  Day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 
Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  limned  upon  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean-side  ? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows ;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 


BRYANT.  95 

Thou'rt  gone  ;   the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form ;   yet  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

HE  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


TO     THE     FRINGED     GENTIAN. 

'  I  "*HOU  blossom,  bright  with  autumn  dew, 

•*"     And  coloured  with  the  heaven's  own  blue, 
That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night ; 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 
O'er  wandering  brooks  and  springs  unseen, 
Or  columbines,  in  purple  dressed, 
Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden  nest. 

Thou  waitest  late,  and  com'st  alone, 
When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown, 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  Year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 
Blue — blue— as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 


96  G  OLDEN   LEAVES. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 


THE     PLANTING     OF     THE     APPLE-TREE. 


let  us  plant  the  apple-tree. 
^^^  Cleave  the  tough  greensward  with  the  spade  ; 
Wide  let  its  hollow  bed  be  made  ; 
There  gently  lay  the  roots,  and  there 
Sift  the  dark  mould  with  kindly  care, 

And  press  it  o'er  them  tenderly, 
As,  round  the  sleeping  infant's  feet 
We  softly  fold  the  cradle-sheet; 

So  plant  we  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ? 
Buds,  which  the  breath  of  summer  days 
Shall  lengthen  into  leafy  sprays  ; 
Boughs  where  the  thrush,  with  crimson  breast, 
Shall  haunt  and  sing  and  hide  her  nest  ; 

We  plant,  upon  the  sunny  lea, 
A  shadow  for  the  noontide  hour, 
A  shelter  from  the  summer  shower, 

When  we  plant  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  r 
Sweets  for  a  hundred  flowery  springs, 
To  load  the  May-wind's  restless  wings, 


BRYANT.  97 

When,  from  the  orchard-row,  he  pours 
Its  fragrance  through  our  open  doors ; 

A  world  of  blossoms  for  the  bee, 
Flowers  for  the  sick  girl's  silent  room, 
For  the  glad  infant  sprigs  of  bloom, 

We  plant  with  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ? 
Fruits  that  shall  swell  in  sunny  June, 
And  redden  in  the  August  noon, 
And  drop,  when  gentle  airs  come  by, 
That  fan  the  blue  September  sky ; 

While  children  come,  with  cries  of  glee, 
And  seek  them  where  the  fragrant  grass 
Betrays  their  bed  to  those  who  pass, 

At  the  foot  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  when,  above  this  apple-tree, 
The  winter  stars  are  quivering  bright, 
And  winds  go  howling  through  the  night, 
Girls,  whose  young  eyes  o'erflow  with  mirth, 
Shall  peel  its  fruit  by  cottage-hearth ; 

And  guests  in  prouder  homes  shall  see, 
Heaped  with  the  grape  of  Cintra's  vine, 
And  golden  orange  of  the  line, 

The  fruit  of  the  apple-tree. 

The  fruitage  of  this  apple-tree 
Winds,  and  our  flag  of  stripe  and  star 
Shall  bear  to  coasts  that  lie  afar, 
Where  men  shall  wonder  at  the  view, 
And  ask  in  what  fair  groves  they  grew ; 

And  sojourners  beyond  the  sea 


98  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Shall  think  of  childhood's  careless  day, 
And  long,  long  hours  of  summer  play, 
In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree. 

Each  year  shall  give  this  apple-tree 
A  broader  flush  of  roseate  bloom, 
A  deeper  maze  of  verdurous  gloom, 
And  loosen,  when  the  frost-clouds  lower, 
The  crisp  brown  leaves  in  thicker  shower. 

The  years  shall  come  and  pass,  but  we 
Shall  hear  no  longer,  where  we  lie, 
The  Summer's  songs,  the  Autumn's  sigh, 

In  the  boughs  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  Time  shall  waste  this  apple-tree. 
Oh,  when  its  aged  branches  throw 
Thin  shadows  on  the  ground  below, 
Shall  fraud  and  force  and  iron  will 
Oppress  the  weak  and  helpless  still  ? 

What  shall  the  tasks  of  Mercy  be, 
Amid  the  toils,  the  strifes,  the  tears 
Of  those  who  live  when  length  of  years 

Is  wasting  this  apple-tree  ? 

"  Who  planted  this  old  apple-tree  ?" 
The  children  of  that  distant  day 
Thus  to  some  aged  man  shall  say ; 
And,  gazing  on  its  mossy  stem, 
The  gray-haired  man  shall  answer  them  : 

"  A  poet  of  the  land  was  he, 
Born  in  the  rude  but  good  old  times ; 
'Tis  said  he  made  some  quaint  old  rhymes 

On  planting  the  apple-tree." 


EVERETT.  99 


®tm*£tt. 


ALARIC     THE      VISIGOTH. 

(ALARIC  stormed  and  spoiled  the  city  of  Rome,  and  was  afterwards 
buried  in  the  channel  of  the  river  Busentius,  the  water  of  which 
had  been  diverted  from  its  course  that  the  body  might  be  interred.) 

"1T7HEN  I  am  dead,  no  pageant  train 

Shall  waste  their  sorrows  at  my  bier, 
Nor  worthless  pomp  of  homage  vain 

Stain  it  with  hypocritic  tear  ; 
For  I  will  die  as  I  did  live, 
Nor  take  the  boon  I  cannot  give. 

Ye  shall  not  raise  a  marble  bust 

Upon  the  spot  where  I  repose  ; 
Ye  shall  not  fawn  before  my  dust, 

In  hollow  circumstance  of  woes  ; 
Nor  sculptured  clay,  with  lying  breath, 
Insult  the  clay  that  moulds  beneath. 

Ye  shall  not  pile,  with  servile  toil, 
Your  monuments  upon  my  breast, 

Nor  yet  within  the  common  soil 

Lay  down  the  wreck  of  power  to  rest, 

Where  man  can  boast  that  he  has  trod 

On  him  that  was  "  the  Scourge  of  GOD  !" 

But  ye  the  mountain-stream  shall  turn, 

And  lay  its  secret  channel  bare, 
And  hollow,  for  your  sovereign's  urn, 

A  resting-place  forever  there  : 


100  G  OLDEN   LEAVES. 

Then  bid  its  everlasting  springs 
Flow  back  upon  the  king  of  kings ; 
And  never  be  the  secret  said, 
Until  the  Deep  give  up  his  dead. 

My  gold  and  silver  ye  shall  fling 

Back  to  the  clods  that  gave  them  birth ; 

The  captured  crowns  of  many  a  king, 
The  ransom  of  a  conquered  earth : 

For,  e'en  though  dead,  will  I  control 

The  trophies  of  the  Capitol. 

But  when,  beneath  the  mountain-tide, 

Ye've  laid  your  monarch  down  to  rot, 
Ye  shall  not  rear  upon  its  side 

Pillar  or  mound  to  mark  the  spot ; 
For  long  enough  the  world  has  shook 
Beneath  the  terrors  of  my  look ; 
And,  now  that  I  have  run  my  race, 
The  astonished  realms  shall  rest  a  space. 

My  course  was  like  a  river  deep, 

And  from  the  Northern  hills  I  burst, 

Across  the  world  in  wrath  to  sweep, 

And  where  I  went  the  spot  was  cursed ; 

Nor  blade  of  grass  again  was  seen 

Where  Alaric  and  his  hosts  had  been. 

See  how  their  haughty  barriers  fail 
Beneath  the  terror  of  the  Goth  ! 

Their  iron-breasted  legions  quail 
Before  my  ruthless  sabaoth ; 

And  low  the  queen  of  empires  kneels, 

And  grovels  at  my  chariot-wheels. 


EVERETT.  101 

Not  for  myself  did  I  ascend 

In  judgment  my  triumphal  car ; 
'Twas  GOD  alone  on  high  did  send 

The  avenging  Scythian  to  the  war — 
To  shake  abroad,  with  iron  hand, 
The  appointed  scourge  of  His  command. 

With  iron  hand  that  scourge  I  reared 

O'er  guilty  king  and  guilty  realm} 
Destruction  was  the  ship  I  steered, 

And  Vengeance  sat  upon  the  helm, 
When,  launched  in  fury  on  the  flood, 
I  ploughed  my  way  through  seas  of  bloodj 
And,  in  the  stream  their  hearts  had  spilt, 
Washed  out  the  long  arrears  of  guilt. 

Across  the  everlasting  Alp 

I  poured  the  torrent  of  my  powers, 

And  feeble  Caesars  shrieked  for  help, 

In  vain,  within  their  seven-hilled  towers ; 

I  quenched  in  blood  the  brightest  gem 

That  glittered  in  their  diadem, 

And  struck  a  darker,  deeper  die 

In  the  purple  of  their  majesty, — 

And  bade  my  Northern  banners  shine 

Upon  the  conquered  Palatine  ! 

My  course  is  run,  my  errand  done ; 

I  go -to  Him  from  whom  I  came; 
But  never  yet  shall  set  the  sun 

Of  glory  that  adorns  my  name ; 
And  Roman  hearts  shall  long  be  sick, 
When  men  shall  think  of  Alaric. 
6 


102  G  OLDEN  LEAVE  S. 

My  course  is  run,  my  errand  done ; 

But  darker  ministers  of  Fate, 
Impatient,  round  the  Eternal  Throne, 

And  in  the  caves  of  Vengeance,  wait ; 
And  soon  mankind  shall  blench  away 
Before  the  name  of  Attila  ! 


Jrcmcea  @.  ®mn. 

THE    CHICKADEE'S    SONG. 

its  downy  wing,  the  snow, 
Hovering,  flieth  to  and  fro  — 
And  the  merry  schoolboy's  shout, 
Rich  with  joy,  is  ringing  out ; 
So  we  gather,  in  our  glee, 
To  the  snow-drifts — Chickadee  ! 

Poets  sing  in  measures  bold 
Of  the  glorious  gods  of  old, 
And  the  nectar  that  they  quaffed, 
When  their  jewelled  goblets  laughed ; 
But  the  snow-cups  best  love  we, 
Gemmed  with  sunbeams — Chickadee  ! 

They  who  choose,  abroad  may  go, 
Where  the  Southern  waters  flow, 
And  the  flowers  are  never  sere 
In  the  garland  of  the  year ; 
But  we  love  the  breezes  free 
Of  our  North-land — Chickadee  ! 


MRS.    GREEN.  103 

To  the  cottage  yard  we  fly, 
With  its  old  trees  waving  high — 
And  the  little  ones  peep  out, 
Just  to  know  what  we're  about; 
For  they  dearly  love  to  see 
Birds  in  winter — Chickadee  ! 

Every  little  feathered  form 
Has  a  nest  of  mosses  warm ; 
There  our  heavenly  Father's  eye 
Looketh  on  us  from  the  sky ; 
And  He  knoweth  where  we  be — 
And  He  heareth — Chickadee  ! 

There  we  sit  the  whole  night  long, 
Dreaming  that  a  spirit-song 
Whispereth  in  the  silent  snow ; 
For  it  has  a  voice  we  know, 
And  it  weaves  our  drapery, 
Soft  as  ermine — Chickadee  ! 

All  the  strong  winds,  as  they  fly, 
Rock  us  with  their  lullaby — 
Rock  us  till  the  shadowy  Night 
Spreads  her  downy  wings  in  flight : 
Then  we  hasten,  fresh  and  free, 
To  the  snow-fields — Chickadee  ! 

Where  our  harvest  sparkles  bright 
In  the  pleasant  morning  light, 
Every  little  feathery  flake 
Will  a  choice  confection  make — 
Each  globule  a  nectary  be, 
And  we'll  drain  it — Chickadee  ! 


104  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

So  we  never  know  a  fear 
In  this  season  cold  and  drear  ; 
For  to  us  a  share  will  fall 
Of  the  love  that  blesseth  all ; 
And  our  Father's  smile  we  see 
On  the  snow-crust — Chickadee  ! 


K.  Scljoolcraft. 

THE     BIRCHEN     CANOE. 

TN  the  region  of  lakes,  where  the  blue  waters  sleep, 
'*•'     My  beautiful  fabric  was  built ; 
Light  cedars  supported  its  weight  on  the  deep, 
And  its  sides  with  the  sunbeams  were  gilt. 

The  bright,  leafy  bark  of  the  betula-tree* 

A  flexible  sheathing  provides ; 
And  the  fir's  thready  roots  drew  the  parts  to  agree, 

And  bound  down  its  high  swelling  sides. 

No  compass  or  gavel  was  used  on  the  bark, 

No  art  but  in  simplest  degree ; 
But  the  structure  was  finished,  and  trim  to  remark, 

And  as  light  as  a  sylph's  could  be. 

Its  rim  was  with  tender  young  roots  woven  round, 

Like  a  pattern  of  wicker-work  rare ; 
And  it  pressed  on  the  waves  with  as  lightsome  a  bound 

As  a  basket  suspended  in  air. 

*  Betula  papyracae. 


SCHOOLCRAFT.  105 

The  builder  knew  well,  in  his  wild,  merry  mood, 

A  smile  from  his  sweet-love  to  win, 
And  he  sung  as  he  sewed  the  green  bark  to  the  wood, 

" Leen  ata  nee  saugein.""* 

The  heavens  in  their  brightness  and  glory  below, 
Were  reflected  quite  plain  to  the  view ; 

And  it  moved  like  a  swan,  with  as  graceful  a  show, 
My  beautiful  birchen  canoe. 

The  trees  on  the  shore,  as  I  glided  along, 

Seemed  rushing  a  contrary  way ; 
And  my  voyagers  lightened  their  toil  with  a  song, 

That  caused  every  heart  to  be  gay. 

And  still  as  I  floated  by  rock  and  by  shell, 

My  bark  raised  a  murmur  aloud, 
And  it  danced  on  the  waves  as  they  rose  and  they  fell, 

Like  a  fay  on  a  bright  summer  cloud. 

I  thought,  as  I  passed  o'er  the  liquid  expanse, 

With  the  landscape  in  smiling  array, 
How  blest  I  should  be,  if  my  life  should  advance 

Thus  tranquil  and  sweetly  away. 

The  skies  were  serene,  not  a  cloud  was  in  sight, 
Not  an  angry  surge  beat  on  the  shore ; 

And  I  gazed  on  the  waters,  and  then  on  the  light, 
Till  my  vision  could  bear  it  no  more. 

Oh !  long  shall  I  think  of  those  silver-bright  lakes, 
And  the  scenes  they  exposed  to  my  view  ; 

My  friends,  and  the  wishes  I  formed  for  their  sakes, 
And  my  bright  yellow  birchen  canoe. 

*  You  only  I  love. 


106  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 


GEEHALE:    AN   INDIAN   LAMENT. 

'  I  HHE  blackbird  is  singing  on  Michigan's  shore 

As  sweetly  and  gayly  as  ever  before ; 
For  he  knows  to  his  mate  he  at  pleasure  can  hie, 
And  the  dear  little  brood  she  is  teaching  to  fly. 
The  sun  looks  as  ruddy,  and  rises  as  bright, 
And  reflects  o'er  the  mountains  as  beamy  a  light 
As  it  ever  reflected,  or  ever  expressed, 
When  my  skies  were  the  bluest,  my  dreams  were  the  best 
The  fox  and  the  panther,  both  beasts  of  the  night, 
Retire  to  their  dens  on  the  gleaming  of  light, 
And  they  spring  with  a  free  and  a  sorrowless  track, 
For  they  know  that  their  mates  are  expecting  them  back. 
Each  bird  and  each  beast,  it  is  blest  in  degree : 
All  Nature  is  cheerful — all  happy,  but  me. 

I  will  go  to  my  tent,  and  lie  down  in  despair ; 
I  will  paint  me  with  black,  and  will  sever  my  hair ; 
I  will  sit  on  the  shore,  where  the  hurricane  blows, 
And  reveal  to  the  god  of  the  tempest  my  woes ; 
I  will  weep  for  a  season,  on  bitterness  fed, 
For  my  kindred  are  gone  to  the  hills  of  the  dead  ; 
But  they  died  not  by  hunger,  or  lingering  decay ; 
The  steel  of  the  white  man  hath  swept  them  away. 

This  snake-skin,  that  once  I  so  sacredly  wore, 
I  will  toss,  with  disdain,  to  the  storm-beaten  shore : 
Its  charms  I  no  longer  obey  or  invoke — 
Its  spirit  hath  left  me,  its  spell  is  now  broke. 
I  will  raise  up  my  voice  to  the  Source  of  the  light ; 
I  will  dream  on  the  wings  of  the  bluebird  at  night ; 
I  will  speak  to  the  spirits  that  whisper  in  leaves, 
And  that  minister  balm  to  the  bosom  that  grieves  : 


WILCOX.  107 

And  will  take  a  new  Manito  —such  as  shall  seem 
To  be  kind  and  propitious  in  every  dream. 

Oh,  then  I  shall  banish  these  cankering  sighs, 
And  tears  shall  no  longer  gush  salt  from  my  eyes ; 
I  shall  wash  from  my  face  every  cloud-coloured  stain, 
Red — red  shall  alone  on  my  visage  remain  ! 
I  will  dig  up  my  hatchet,  and  bend  my  oak  bow ; 
By  night  and  by  day  I  will  follow  the  foe ; 
Nor  lakes  shall  impede  me,  nor  mountains,  nor  snows ; 
His  blood  can  alone  give  my  spirit  repose  ! 

They  came  to  my  cabin  when  heaven  was  black ; 
I  heard  not  their  coming,  I  knew  not  their  track ; 
But  I  saw,  by  the  light  of  their  blazing  fusees, 
They  were  people  engendered  beyond  the  big  seas : 
My  wife  and  my  children — oh,  spare  me  the  tale  ! 
For  who  is  there  left  that  is  kin  to  GEEHALE  ? 


lUilco*. 


SUNSET     IN     SEPTEMBER. 

'  I  "*HE  sun  now  rests  upon  the  mountain-tops  — 
•*•     Begins  to  sink  behind  —  is  half  concealed  — 
And  now  is  gone  :   the  last  faint,  twinkling  beam 
Is  cut  in  twain  by  the  sharp-rising  ridge. 
Sweet  to  the  pensive  is  departing  day, 
When  only  one  small  cloud,  so  still  and  thin, 
So  thoroughly  imbued  with  amber  light, 
And  so  transparent,  that  it  seems  a  spot 
Of  brighter  sky,  beyond  the  farthest  mount, 


108  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

Hangs  o'er  the  hidden  orb ;   or  where  a  few 
Long,  narrow  stripes  of  denser,  darker  grain, 
At  each  end  sharpened  to  a  needle's  point, 
With  golden  borders,  sometimes  straight  and  smooth, 
And  sometimes  crinkling  like  the  lightning-stream, 
A  half-hour's  space  above  the  mountain  lie ; 
Or  when  the  whole  consolidated  mass, 
That  only  threatened  rain,  is  broken  up 
Into  a  thousand  parts,  and  yet  is  one — 
One  as  the  ocean  broken  into  waves ; 
And  all  its  spongy  parts,  imbibing  deep 
The  moist  effulgence,  seem  like  fleeces  dyed 
Deep  scarlet,  saffron  light,  or  crimson  dark, 
As  they  are  thick  or  thin,  or  near  or  more  remote, 
All  fading  soon,  as  lower  sinks  the  sun, 
Till  twilight  end.      But  now  another  scene 
To  me  most  beautiful  of  all,  appears : 
The  sky,  without  the  shadow  of  a  cloud, 
Throughout  the  west,  is  kindled  to  a  glow 
So  bright  and  broad,  it  glares  upon  the  eye — 
Not  dazzling,  but  dilating  with  calm  force 
Its  power  of  vision  to  admit  the  whole. 
Below,  'tis  all  of  richest  orange  dye ; 
Midway,  the  blushing  of  the  mellow  peach 
Paints  not,  but  tinges  the  ethereal  deep ; 
And  here,  in  this  most  lovely  region,  shines, 
With  added  loveliness,  the  evening-star. 
Above,  the  fainter  purple  slowly  fades, 
Till  changed  into  the  azure  of  mid-heaven. 
Along  the  level  ridge,  o'er  which  the  sun 
Descended,  in  a  single  row  arranged, 
As  if  thus  planted  by  the  hand  of  Art, 


J/7?^.  EMB  UR  Y.  109 

Majestic  pines  shoot  up  into  the  sky, 

And  in  its  fluid  gold  seem  half  dissolved. 

Upon  a  nearer  peak,  a  cluster  stands 

With  shafts  erect,  and  tops  converged  to  one, 

A  stately  colonnade,  with  verdant  roof; 

Upon  a  nearer  still,  a  single  tree, 

With  shapely  form,  looks  beautiful  alone ; 

While,  farther  northward,  through  a  narrow  pass 

Scooped  in  the  hither  range,  a  single  mount 

Beyond  the  rest,  of  finer  smoothness  seems, 

And  of  a  softer,  more  ethereal  blue, 

A  pyramid  of  polished  sapphire  built. 

But  now  the  twilight  mingles  into  one 
The  various  mountains ;  levels  to  a  plain 
This  nearer,  lower  landscape,  dark  with  shade, 
Where  every  object  to  my  sight  presents 
Its  shaded  side ;  while  here  upon  these  walls, 
And  in  that  eastern  wood,  upon  the  trunks 
Under  thick  foliage,  reflective  shows 
Its  yellow  lustre.      How  distinct  the  line 
Of  the  horizon,  parting  heaven  and  earth  ! 


(Smnw  (J. 

CHEERFULNESS. 

A     GENTLE  heritage  is  mine, 
***•       A  life  of  quiet  pleasure : 
My  heaviest  cares  are  but  to  twine 
Fresh  votive  garlands  for  the  shrine 
Where  'bides  my  bosom's  treasure ; 
6* 


110  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

I  am  not  merry,  nor  yet  sad, 

My  thoughts  are  more  serene  than  glad. 

I  have  outlived  youth's  feverish  mirth, 

And  all  its  causeless  sorrow : 
My  joys  are  now  of  nobler  birth, 
My  sorrows  too  have  holier  birth, 

And  heavenly  solace  borrow  ; 
So,  from  my  green  and  shady  nook, 
Back  on  my  by-past  life  I  look. 

The  Past  has  memories  sad  and  sweet, 

Memories  still  fondly  cherished, 
Of  love  that  blossomed  at  my  feet, 
Whose  odours  still  my  senses  greet, 

E'en  though  the  flowers  have  perished  : 
Visions  of  pleasures  passed  away 
That  charmed  me  in  life's  earlier  day. 

The  Future,  Isis-like,  sits  veiled, 

And  none  her  mystery  learneth ; 
Yet  why  should  the  bright  cheek  be  paled, 
For  sorrows  that  may  be  bewailed 
When  Time  our  hopes  inureth  ? 
Come  when  it  will,  Grief  comes  too  soon — 
Why  dread  the  night  at  highest  noon  ? 

I  would  not  pierce  the  mist  that  hides 
Life's  coming  joy  or  sorrow ; 

If  sweet  Content  with  me  abides 

While  onward  still  the  present  glides, 
I  think  not  of  the  morrow ; 

It  may  bring  griefs — enough  for  me 

The  quiet  joy  I  feel  and  see. 


WARE.  Ill 


ijjenrg  ill  are,  3r. 

SEASONS     OF      PRAYER. 

*  I  ^O  prayer,  to  prayer  ! — for  the  morning  breaks, 

And  Earth  in  her  Maker's  smile  awakes. 
His  light  is  on  all  below  and  above — 
The  light  of  gladness,  and  life,  and  love. 
Oh,  then,  on  the  breath  of  this  early  air, 
Send  upward  the  incense  of  grateful  prayer. 

To  prayer  ! — for  the  glorious  sun  is  gone, 
And  the  gathering  darkness  of  night  comes  on. 
Like  a  curtain  from  GOD'S  kind  hand  it  flows, 
To  shade  the  couch  where  His  children  repose. 
Then  kneel,  while  the  watching  stars  are  bright, 
And  give  your  last  thoughts  to  the  Guardian  of  night. 

To  prayer ! — for  the  day  that  GOD  has  blest 
Comes  tranquilly  on  with  its  welcome  rest. 
It  speaks  of  creation's  early  bloom ; 
It  speaks  of  the  Prince  who  burst  the  tomb. 
Then  summon  the  spirit's  exalted  powers, 
And  devote  to  Heaven  the  hallowed  hours. 

There  are  smiles  and  tears  in  the  mother's  eyes, 

For  her  new-born  infant  beside  her  lies. 

Oh,  hour  of  bliss  !  when  the  heart  o'erflows 

With  rapture  a  mother  only  knows. 

Let  it  gush  forth  in  words  of  fervent  prayer ; 

Let  it  swell  up  to  Heaven  for  her  precious  care. 


112  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

There  are  smiles  and  tears  in  that  gathering  band, 
Where  the  heart  is  pledged  with  the  trembling  hand. 
What  trying  thoughts  in  her  bosom  swell, 
As  the  bride  bids  parents  and  home  farewell ! 
Kneel  down  by  the  side  of  the  tearful  fair, 
And  strengthen  the  perilous  hour  with  prayer. 

Kneel  down  by  the  dying  sinner's  side, 
And  pray  for  his  soul  through  Him  who  died. 
Large  drops  of  anguish  are  thick  on  his  brow  — 
Oh,  what  is  earth  and  its  pleasures  now  ! 
And  what  shall  assuage  his  dark  despair, 
But  the  penitent  cry  of  humble  prayer? 

Kneel  down  at  the  couch  of  departing  faith, 

And  hear  the  last  words  the  believer  saith. 

He  has  bidden  adieu  to  his  earthly  friends  j 

There  is  peace  in  his  eye  that  upward  bends ; 

There  is  peace  in  his  calm,  confiding  air ; 

For  his  last  thoughts  are  GOD'S,  his  last  words  prayer 

The  voice  of  prayer  at  the  sable  bier  ! 

A  voice  to  sustain,  to  soothe,  and  to  cheer. 

It  commends  the  spirit  to  GOD  who  gave ; 

It  lifts  the  thoughts  from  the  cold,  dark  grave  ! 

It  points  to  the  glory  where  He  shall  reign, 

Who  whispered,  "Thy  brother  shall  rise  again." 

The  voice  of  prayer  in  the  world  of  bliss ! 
But  gladder,  purer,  than  rose  from  this. 
The  ransomed  shout  to  their  glorious  King, 
Where  no  sorrow  shades  the  soul  as  they  sing ; 
But  a  sinless  and  joyous  song  they  raise, 
And  their  voice  of  prayer  is  eternal  praise. 


MARIA    BROOKS.  113 

Awake,  awake  !   and  gird  up  thy  strength 

To  join  that  holy  band  at  length. 

To  Him  who  unceasing  love  displays, 

Whom  the  powers  of  Nature  unceasingly  praise, 

To  Him  thy  heart  and  thy  hours  be  given ; 

For  a  life  of  prayer  is  the  life  of  heaven. 


fttavia 


TO     THE     RIVER     ST.     LAWRENCE. 

'  I  "*HE  first  time  I  beheld  thee,  beauteous  stream, 

How  pure,  how  smooth,  how  broad  thy  bosom  heaved  ! 
What  feelings  rushed  upon  my  heart  !  —  a  gleam 
As  of  another  life  my  kindling  soul  received. 

Fair  was  the  day,  and  o'er  the  crowded  deck 
Joy  shone  in  many  a  smile  ;  light  clouds,  in  hue 

As  silvery  as  the  new-fledged  cygnet's  neck, 

Cast,  as  they  moved,  faint  shadows  on  the  blue  — 

Soft,  deep,  and  distant  —  of  the  mountain-chain, 
Wreathing  and  blending,  tint  with  tint,  and  traced 

So  gently  on  the  smiling  sky.      In  vain 

Time,  scene,  has  changed  :   'twill  never  be  effaced. 

Now  o'er  thy  tranquil  breast  the  moonbeams  quiver  : 
How  calm  the  air,  how  still  the  hour  —  how  bright  ! 

Would  thou  wert  doomed  to  be  my  grave,  sweet  river  ! 
How  blends  my  soul  with  thy  pure  breath  to-night  ! 


114  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

The  dearest  hours  that  soul  has  ever  known 

Have  been  upon  thy  brink  :   would  it  could  wait, 

And,  parted,  watch  thee  still ! — to  stay  and  moan 
With  thee,  were  better  than  my  promised  fate. 

Ladaiianna  !   monarch  of  the  North  ! 

Father  of  streams  unsung,  be  sung  by  me  ! 
Receive  a  lay  that  flows  resistless  forth  ! 

Oh,  quench  the  fervour  that  consumes,  in  thee  ! 

I've  seen  more  beauty  on  thy  banks,  more  bliss, 
Than  I  had  deemed  were  ever  seen  below ; 

Dew  falls  not  on  a  happier  land  than  this ; 

Fruits  spring  from  desert  wilds,  and  Love  sits  throned  on 
snow ; 

Snows  that  drive  warmth  to  shelter  in  the  heart; 

Snows  that  conceal,  beneath  their  moonlit  heaps, 
Plenty's  rich  embryo ;   fruits  and  flowers  that  start 

To  meet  their  full-grown  Spring,  as  strong  to  earth  he  leaps. 

How  many  grades  of  life  thou  view'st !  thy  wave 
Bears  the  dark  daughter  of  the  woods,  as  light 

She  springs  to  her  canoe,  and,  wildly  grave, 
Views  the  Great  Spirit  mid  the  fires  of  night. 

A  hardy  race,  sprung  from  the  Gaul,  and  gay, 

Frame  their  wild  songs  and  sing  them  to  the  oar; 

And  think  to  chase  the  forest- fiends  away, 

Where  yet  no  mass-bell  tinkles  from  the  shore. 

The  pensive  nun  throws  back  the  veil  that  hides 

Her  calm,  chaste  eyes ;  straining  them  long,  to  mark 

When  the  mist  thickens,  if  perchance  there  bides 
The  peril,  wildering  on,  some  little  bark  : 


MARIA    BROOKS.  115 

And  trims  her  lamp,  and  hangs  it  in  her  tower ; 

Not  as  the  priestess  did  of  old  (she's  driven 
To  do  that  deed  by  no  fierce  passion's  power), 

But  kindly,  calmly,  for  the  love  of  Heaven. 

Who  had  been  lost,  what  heart  from  breaking  saved, 
She  knows  not,  thinks  not ;  guided  by  her  star, 

Some  being  leaps  to  shore :   'twas  all  she  craved ; 
She  makes  the  holy  sign,  and  blesses  him  from  far. 

The  plaided  soldier,  in  his  mountain  pride 

Exulting,  as  he  treads  with  statelier  pace, 
Views  his  white  limbs  reflected  in  thy  tide, 

While  wave  the  sable  plumes  that  shade  his  manly  face. 

The  song  of  Ossian  mingles  with  thy  gale, 
The  harp  of  Carolan's  remembered  here ; 

The  bright-haired  son  of  Erin  tells  his  tale, 

Dreams  of  his  misty  isle,  and  drops  for  her  a  tear. 

Thou'st  seen  the  trophies  of  that  deathless  day, 

Whose  name  bright  glance  from  every  Briton  brings, 

When  half  the  world  was  marshalled  in  array, 
And  fell  the  great,  self-nurtured  "king  of  kings." 

Youthful  Columbia,  ply  thy  useful  arts ; 

Rear  the  strong  nursling  that  thy  mother  bore, 
Called  Liberty.      Thy  boundless  fields,  thy  marts, 

Enough  for  thee :   tempt  these  brown  rocks  no  more ; 

Or  leave  them  to  that  few,  who,  blind  to  gold, 
And  scorning  pleasure,  brave  with  higher  zest 

A  doubtful  path ;  mid  pain,  want,  censure,  bold 
To  pant  one  fevered  hour  on  Genius'  breast. 


Il6  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

Nature's  best  loved,  thine  own,  thy  virtuous  WEST, 

Chose  for  his  pencil  a  Canadian  sky  : 
Bade  Death  recede,  who  the  fallen  victor  pressed, 

And  made  perpetuate  his  latest  sigh.* 

SULLY,  of  tender  tints  transparent,  fain 

I  would  thy  skill  a  while ;   for  Memory's  showing, 

To  prove  thy  hand  the  purest  of  thy  train, 
A  native  beauty  from  thy  pencil  glowing. 

Or  he  who  sketched  the  Cretan  :  gone  her  Greek, 
She,  all  unconscious  that  he's  false  or  flying, 

Sleeps,  while  the  light  blood  revels  in  her  cheek 
So  rosy  warm,  we  listen  for  her  sighing.  \ 

Could  he  paint  beauty,  warmth,  light,  happiness, 
Diffused  around  like  fragrance  from  a  flower — 

And  melody — all  that  sense  can  bless, 

Or  soul  concentrate  in  one  form — his  power 

I'd  ask.      But  Nature,  Nature,  when  thou  wilt, 
Thou  canst  enough  to  make  all  art  despair ; 

Guard  well  the  wondrous  model  thou  hast  built, 

Which  these,  thy  nectared  \\aves,  reflect  and  love  to 
bear. 

Nature,  all-powerful  Nature,  thine  are  ties 

That  seldom  break :   though  the  heart  beat  so  cold, 

That  Love  and  Fancy's  fairest  garland  dies  — 

Though  false,  though  light  as  air — thy  bonds  may  hold. 


In  allusion  to  West's  celebrated  picture,  "  The  Death  of  Wolfe.' 
Vanderlyn — see  his  picture  of  u  Ariadne." 


NEAL.  117 

The  mother  loves  her  child  :   the  brother  yet 
Thinks  of  his  sister,  though  for  years  unseen ; 

And  seldom  doth  the  bridegroom  quite  forget 

Her  who  hath  blest  him  once,  though  seas  may  roll 
between. 

But  can  a  friendship,  pure  and  rapture-wrought, 
Endure  without  such  bonds  ?     I'll  deem  it  may, 

And  bless  the  hope  it  nurtures :  beauteous  thought, 
Howe'er  fantastic  ! — dear  illusion — stay  ! 

O  stream,  O  country  of  my  heart,  farewell ! 

Say,  shall  I  e'er  return  ?  shall  I  once  more — 
Ere  close  these  eyes  that  looked  to  love — ah,  tell ! 

Say,  shall  I  tread  again  thy  fertile  shore  ? 

Else,  how  endure  my  weary  lot — the  strife 

To  gain  content  when  far — -the  burning  sighs — 

The  asking  wish — the  aching  void  ?     O  life  ! 
Thou  art,  and  hast  been,  one  long  sacrifice  ! 


3ol)n 

MUSIC     OF     THE     NIGHT. 

THERE   are  harps  that  complain  to  the  presence   of 
Night, 

To  the  presence  of  Night  alone — 
In  a  near  and  unchangeable  tone — 
Like  winds,  full  of  sound,  that  go  whispering  by, 
As  if  some  immortal  had  stooped  from  the  sky, 
And  breathed  out  a  blessing — and  flown  ! 


118  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Yes !  harps  that  complain  to  the  breezes  of  Night, 

To  the  breezes  of  Night  alone ; 
Growing  fainter  and  fainter,  as  ruddy  and  bright 
The  Sun  rolls  aloft  in  his  drapery  of  light, 

Like  a  conqueror,  shaking  his  brilliant  hair 

And  flourishing  robe,  on  the  edge  of  the  air ! 
Burning  crimson  and  gold 
On  the  clouds  that  unfold, 

Breaking  onward  in  flame,  while  an  ocean  divides 
On  his  right  and  his  left — so  the  Thunderer  rides, 
When  he  cuts  a  bright  path  through  the  heaving  tides, 

Rolling  on,  and  erect,  in  a  charioting  throne  ! 

Yes  !  strings  that  lie  still  in  the  gushing  of  Day, 

That  awake,  all  alive,  to  the  breezes  of  Night. 
There  are  hautboys  and  flutes  too,  forever  at  play 
When  the  evening  is  near,  and  the  sun  is  away, 

Breathing  out  the  still  hymn  of  delight. 
These  strings  by  invisible  fingers  are  played — 

By  spirits,  unseen  and  unknown, 
But  thick  as  the  stars,  all  this  music  is  made ; 
And  these  flutes,  alone, 
In  one  sweet,  dreamy  tone, 
Are  ever  blown, 

Forever  and  forever. 
The  livelong  night  ye  hear  the  sound, 
Like  distant  waters  flowing  round 
In  ringing  caves,  while  heaven  is  sweet 
With  crowding  tunes,  like  halls 
Where  fountain-music  falls, 
And  rival  minstrels  meet. 


NEAL.  119 


ON    SEEING    CAVALRY    PASSING    THROUGH    A    GORGE, 

AT    SUNSET. 
(FROM  "  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.") 

\  H,  now  let  us  gaze  ! — what  a  wonderful  sky  ! 
^**  How  the  robe  of  the  god,  in  its  flame-colored  dye, 
Goes  ruddily,  flushingly,  sweepingly  by  !  .... 
Nay,  speak  !   did  you  ever  behold  such  a  night  ? 
While  the  winds  blew  about,  and  the  waters  were  bright, 
The  sun  rolling  home  in  an  ocean  of  light ! 
But  hush  !   there  is  music  away  in  the  sky ; 
Some  creatures  of  magic  are  charioting  by ; 
Now  it  comes — what  a  sound  !   'tis  as  cheerful  and  wild 
As  the  echo  of  caves  to  the  laugh  of  a  child ; 
Ah  yes,  they  are  here  !     See,  away  to  your  left, 
Where  the  sun  has  gone  down,  where  the  mountains  are  cleft, 
A  troop  of  tall  horsemen  !     How  fearless  they  ride  ! 
'Tis  a  perilous  path  o'er  that  steep  mountain's  side ; 
Careering  they  come,  like  a  band  of  young  knights 
That  the  trumpet  of  morn  to  the  tilting  invites ; 
With  high-nodding  plumes,  and  with  sunshiny  vests ; 
With  wide-tossing  manes,  and  with  mail-covered  breasts ; 
With  arching  of  necks,  and  the  plunge  and  the  pride 
Of  their  high-mettled  steeds,  as  they  galloping  ride, 
In  glitter  and  pomp  j  with  their  housings  of  gold, 
With  their  scarlet  and  blue,  as  their  squadrons  unfold, 
Flashing  changeable  light,  like  a  banner  unrolled  ! 
Now  they  burst  on  the  eye  in  their  martial  array, 
And  now  they  have  gone,  like  a  vision  of  day. 
In  a  streaming  of  splendour  they  came — but  they  wheeled  ; 
And  instantly  all  the  bright  show  was  concealed — 


120  G  OLDEN   LEAVES. 

As  if  'twere  a  tournament  held  in  the  sky, 
Betrayed  by  some  light  passing  suddenly  by ; 
Some  band  by  the  flashing  of  torches  revealed, 
As  it  fell  o'er  the  boss  of  an  uplifted  shield, 
Or  banners  and  blades  in  the  darkness  concealed. 


3amc0  (Sates  JJerritml. 

THE  GRAVES  OF   THE   PATRIOTS. 

TTERE  rest  the  great  and  good — here  they  repose 

After  their  generous  toil.      A  sacred  band, 
They  take  their  sleep  together,  while  the  year 
Comes  with  its  early  flowers  to  deck  their  graves, 
And  gathers  them  again,  as  Winter  frowns. 
Theirs  is  no  vulgar  sepulchre ;  green  sods 
Are  all  their  monument ;   and  yet  it  tells 
A  nobler  history  than  pillared  piles, 
Or  the  eternal  pyramids.      They  need 
No  statue  nor  inscription  to  reveal 
Their  greatness.      It  is  round  them;  and  the  joy 
With  which  their  children  tread  the  hallowed  ground 
That  holds  their  venerated  bones,  the  peace 
That  smiles  on  all  they  fought  for,  and  the  wealth 
That  clothes  the  land  they  rescued — these,  though  mute, 
As  feeling  ever  is  when  deepest — these 
Are  monuments  more  lasting  than  the  fanes 
Reared  to  the  kings  and  demigods  of  old. 

Touch  not  the  ancient  elms,  that  bend  their  shade 
Over  their  lowly  graves ;   beneath  their  boughs 


PER  CIV A  L.  121 

There  is  a  solemn  darkness,  even  at  noon, 
Suited  to  such  as  visit  at  the  shrine 
Of  serious  Liberty.     No  factious  voice 
Called  them  unto  the  field  of  generous  fame, 
But  the  poor  consecrated  love  of  home. 
No  deeper  feeling  sways  us,  when  it  wakes 
In  all  its  greatness.      It  has  told  itself 
To  the  astonished  gaze  of  awe-struck  kings, 
At  Marathon,  at  Bannockburn,  and  here, 
When  first  our  patriots  sent  the  invader  back 
Broken  and  cowed.     Let  these  green  elms  be  all 
To  tell  us  where  they  fought,  and  where  they  lie. 
Their  feelings  were  all  nature,  and  they  need 
No  art  to  make  them  known.     They  live  in  us, 
While  we  are  like  them,  simple,  hardy,  bold, 
Worshipping  nothing  but  our  own  pure  hearts, 
And  the  one  universal  LORD.      They  need 
No  column,  pointing  to  the  heaven  they  sought, 
To  tell  us  of  their  home.     The  heart  itself, 
Left  to  its  own  free  purpose,  hastens  there, 
And  there  alone  reposes. 

TO     THE     EAGLE. 

IRD  of  the  broad  and  sweeping  wing, 

Thy  home  is  high  in  heaven, 
Where  wide  the  storms  their  banners  fling, 

And  the  tempest-clouds  are  driven. 
Thy  throne  is  on  the  mountain-top ; 

Thy  fields,  the  boundless  air ; 
And  hoary  peaks,  that  proudly  prop 
The  skies,  thy  dwellings  are. 


122  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

Thou  sittest  like  a  thing  of  light, 

Amid  the  noontide  blaze  : 
The  midway  sun  is  clear  and  bright — 

It  cannot  dim  thy  gaze. 
Thy  pinions,  to  the  rushing  blast, 

O'er  the  bursting  billow,  spread, 
Where  the  vessel  plunges,  hurry  past, 

Like  an  angel  of  the  dead. 

Thou  art  perched  aloft  on  the  beetling  crag, 

And  the  waves  are  white  below — 
And  on,  with  a  haste  that  cannot  lag, 

They  rush  in  an  endless  flow. 
Again  thou  hast  plumed  thy  wing  for  flight 

To  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
And  away,  like  a  spirit  wreathed  in  light, 

Thou  hurriest,  wild  and  free. 

Thou  hurriest  over  the  myriad  waves, 

And  thou  leavest  them  all  behind ; 
Thou  sweepest  that  place  of  unknown  graves, 

Fleet  as  the  tempest-wind. 
When  the  night-storm  gathers  dim  and  dark 

With  a  shrill  and  boding  scream, 
Thou  rushest  by  the  foundering  bark, 

Quick  as  a  passing  dream. 

Lord  of  the  boundless  realm  of  air, 

In  thy  imperial  name, 
The  hearts  of  the  bold  and  ardent  dare 

The  dangerous  path  of  fame. 
Beneath  the  shade  of  thy  golden  wings, 

The  Roman  legions  bore, 


PER  CIV AL.  123 

From  the  river  of  Egypt's  cloudy  springs, 
Their  pride,  to  the  polar  shore. 

For  thee  they  fought,  for  thee  they  fell, 

And  their  oath  was  on  thee  laid ; 
To  thee  the  clarions  raised  their  swell, 

And  the  dying  warrior  prayed. 
Thou  wert,  through  an  age  of  death  and  fears, 

The  image  of  pride  and  power, 
Till  the  gathered  rage  of  a  thousand  years 

Burst  forth  in  one  awful  hour ! 

And  then  a  deluge  of  wrath  it  came, 

And  the  nations  shook  with  dread ; 
And  it  swept  the  earth  till  its  fields  were  flame, 

And  piled  with  the  mingled  dead ! 
Kings  were  rolled  in  the  wasteful  flood, 

With  the  low  and  crouching  slave ; 
And  together  lay,  in  a  shroud  of  blood, 

The  coward  and  the  brave. 

And  where  was  then  thy  fearless  flight  ? 

"  O'er  the  dark,  mysterious  sea, 
To  the  lands  that  caught  the  setting  light — 

The  cradle  of  Liberty. 
There,  on  the  silent  and  lonely  shore, 

For  ages,  I  watched  alone ; 
And  the  world,  in  its  darkness,  asked  no  more 

Where  the  glorious  bird  had  flown. 

"  But  then  came  a  bold  and  hardy  few, 
And  they  breasted  the  unknown  wave ; 

I  caught  afar  the  wandering  crew, 

And  I  knew  they  were  high  and  brave. 


124  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

I  wheeled  around  the  welcome  bark, 

As  it  sought  the  desolate  shore, 
And  up  to  heaven,  like  a  joyous  lark, 

My  quivering  pinions  bore. 

"  And  now  that  bold  and  hardy  few 

Are  a  nation  wide  and  strong ; 
And  danger  and  doubt  I  have  led  them  through, 

And  they  worship  me  in  song ; 
And  over  their  bright  and  glancing  arms, 

On  field,  and  lake,  and  sea, 
With  an  eye  that  fires  and  a  spell  that  charms 

I  guide  them  to  victory." 


NEW     ENGLAND. 

T  TAIL  to  the  land  whereon  we  tread, 
•*•  •*•     Our  fondest  boast  j 
The  sepulchre  of  mighty  dead, 
The  truest  hearts  that  ever  bled, 
Who  sleep  on  Glory's  brightest  bed, 

A  fearless  host ! 

No  slave  is  here ;  our  unchained  feet 
Walk  freely  as  the  waves  that  beat 

Our  coast. 

Our  fathers  crossed  the  ocean's  wave 

To  seek  this  shore  ; 
They  left  behind  the  coward  slave 
To  welter  in  his  living  grave ; 
With  hearts  unbent,  and  spirits  brave, 

They  sternly  bore 


PERCIVAL. 

Such  toils  as  meaner  souls  had  quelled ; 
But  souls  like  these,  such  toils  impelled 
To  soar. 

Hail  to  the  morn,  when  first  they  stood 

On  Bunker's  height, 

And,  Fearless,  stemmed  the  invading  flood, 
And  wrote  our  dearest  rights  in  blood, 
And  mowed  in  ranks  the  hireling  brood, 

In  desperate  fight ! 
Oh,  'twas  a  proud,  exulting  day, 
For  even  our  fallen  fortunes  lay 

In  light. 

There  is  no  other  land  like  thee, 

No  dearer  shore ; 
Thou  art  the  shelter  of  the  free ; 
The  home,  the  port  of  Liberty, 
Thou  hast  been,  and  shalt  ever  be, 

Till  time  is  o'er. 
Ere  I  forget  to  think  upon 
My  land,  shall  mother  curse  the  son 

She  bore ! 

Thou  art  the  firm,  unshaken  rock, 

On  which  we  rest ; 
And,  rising  from  thy  hardy  stock, 
Thy  sons  the  tyrant's  frown  shall  mock, 
And  slavery's  galling  chains  unlock, 

And  free  the  oppressed  : 
All,  who  the  wreath  of  Freedom  twine 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  their  vine, 

Are  blessed. 

7 


126  G  OLDEN   LEAVES. 

We  love  thy  rude  and  rocky  shore, 

And  here  we  stand — 
Let  foreign  navies  hasten  o'er, 
And  on  our  heads  their  fury  pour, 
And  peal  their  cannon's  loudest  roar, 

And  storm  our  land  ; 
They  still  shall  find  our  lives  are  given 
To  die  for  home ; — and  leaned  on  Heaven 

Our  hand. 


THE     CORAL-GROVE. 

f"\EEP  in  the  wave  is  a  coral-grove, 
•^"^   Where  the  purple  mullet  and  goldfish  rove, 
Where  the  sea-flower  spreads  its  leaves  of  blue, 
That  never  are  wet  with  falling  dew, 
But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty  shine, 
Far  down  in  the  green  and  glassy  brine ; 
The  floor  is  of  sand,  like  the  mountain  drift, 

And  the  pearl-shells  spangle  the  flinty  snow ; 
From  coral-rocks  the  sea-plants  lift 

Their  boughs,  where  the  tides  and  billows  flow ; 
The  water  is  calm  and  still  below, 

For  the  winds  and  waves  are  absent  there, 
And  the  sands  are  bright  as  the  stars  that  glow 

In  the  motionless  fields  of  upper  air : 
There,  with  its  waving  blade  of  green, 

The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  silent  water, 
And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is  seen 

To  blush,  like  a  banner  bathed  in  slaughter : 
There,  with  a  light  and  easy  motion, 

The  fan-coral  sweeps  through  the  clear,  deep  sea ; 


PERCIVAL.  127 

And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of  ocean 

Are  bending  like  corn  on  the  upland  lea : 
And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  forms, 

Is  sporting  amid  those  bowers  of  stone, 
And  is  safe,  when  the  wrathful  Spirit  of  Storms 

Has  made  the  top  of  the  wave  his  own : 
And  when  the  ship  from  his  fury  flies, 

Where  the  myriad  voices  of  Ocean  roar, 
When  the  Wind-god  frowns  in  the  murky  skies, 

And  demons  are  waiting  the  wreck  on  shore ; 
Then  far  below  in  the  peaceful  sea, 

The  purple  mullet  and  goldfish  rove, 
Where  the  waters  murmur  tranquilly, 

Through  the  bending  twigs  of  the  coral-grove. 


IT  IS  GREAT  FOR  OUR  COUNTRY  TO  DIE. 

K>  it  is  great  for  our  country  to  die,  where  ranks  are 

contending ! 
Bright  is  the  wreath  of  our  fame ;    glory  awaits  us  for 

aye — 
Glory,   that  never  is   dim,   shining  on  with    light  never 

ending — 
Glory  that  never  shall  fade — never,  oh,  never  away ! 

Oh,  it  is  sweet  for  our  country  to  die  !    How  softly  reposes 
Warrior-youth  on  his  bier,  wet  by  the  tears  of  his  love, 
Wet  by  a  mother's  warm  tears !  they  crown  him  with  gar- 
lands of  roses, 

Weep,  and  then  joyously  turn,  bright  where  he  triumphs 
above. 


128  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Not  to  the  shades  shall  the  youth  descend  who  for  country 

hath  perished ; 
Hebe  awaits  him  in  heaven,  welcomes  him  there  with 

her  smile  : 

There,  at  the  banquet  divine,  the  patriot  spirit  is  cherished ; 
Gods  love  the  young  who  ascend  pure  from  the  funeral 
pile. 

Not  to  Elysian  fields,  by  the  still,  oblivious  river ; 

Not  to  the  isles  of  the  blest,  over  the  blue  rolling  sea ; 
But  on  Olympian  heights  shall  dwell  the  devoted  forever ; 

There  shall  assemble  the  good,  there  the  wise,  valiant, 
and  free. 

Oh,  then,  how  great  for  our  country  to  die,  in  the  front 

rank  to  perish — 
Firm  with  our  breast  to  the  foe,  Victory's  shout  in  our 

ear! 
Long  they  our  statues  shall  crown,  in  songs  our  memory 

cherish ; 

We  shall  look  forth  from  our  heaven,  pleased  the  sweet 
music  to  hear. 


f.  ©cmRr. 

THE     SNOW-FLAKE. 


,  if  l  M'  wil1  "  be  my  lot 

To  be  cast  in  some  low  and  lonely  spot, 
To  melt,  and  to  sink  unseen  or  forgot  ? 
And  then  will  my  course  be  ended  ?" 
'Twas  thus  a  feathery  Snow-Flake  said, 
As  down  through  the  measureless  space  it  strayed, 


HANNAH   F.    GOULD.  129 

Or,  as  half  by  dalliance,  half  afraid, 
It  seemed  in  mid  air  suspended. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  the  Earth,  "  thou  shalt  not  lie, 
Neglected  and  lone,  on  my  lap  to  die, 
Thou  pure  and  delicate  child  of  the  sky, 

For  thou  wilt  be  safe  in  my  keeping; 
But,  then,  I  must  give  thee  a  lovelier  form ; 
Thou'lt  not  be  a  part  of  the  wintry  storm, 
But  revive  when  the  sunbeams  are  yellow  and  warm, 

And  the  flowers  from  my  bosom  are  peeping. 

"  And  then  thou  shalt  have  thy  choice  to  be 
Restored  in  the  lily  that  decks  the  lea, 
In  the  jessamine  bloom,  the  anemone, 

Or  aught  of  thy  spotless  whiteness ; 
To  melt,  and  be  cast  in  a  glittering  bead, 
With  the  pearls  that  the  night  scatters  over  the  mead, 
In  the  cup  where  the  bee  and  the  fire-fly  feed, 

Regaining  thy  dazzling  brightness ; — 

"  To  wake,  and  be  raised  from  thy  transient  sleep, 
When  Viola's  mild  blue  eye  shall  weep, 
In  a  tremulous  tear,  or  a  diamond  leap 

In  a  drop  from  the  unlocked  fountain ; 
Or,  leaving  the  valley,  the  meadow,  and  heath, 
The  streamlet,  the  flowers,  and  all  beneath, 
To  go  and  be  wove  in  the  silvery  wreath 

Encircling  the  brow  of  the  mountain. 

"  Or,  wouldst  thou  return  to  a  home  in  the  skies, 
To  shine  in  the  Iris  I'll  let  thee  arise, 
And  appear  in  the  many  and  glorious  dyes 
A  pencil  of  sunbeams  is  blending. 


130  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

But  true,  fair  thing,  as  my  name  is  Earth, 
I'll  give  thee  a  new  and  vernal  birth, 
When  thou  shalt  recover  thy  primal  worth, 
And  never  regret  descending." 

"Then  I  will  drop,"  said  the  trusting  Flake; 
"  But  bear  it  in  mind,  that  the  choice  I  make 
Is  not  in  the  flowers  nor  the  dew  to  awake, 

Nor  the  mist  that  shall  pass  with  the  morning ; 
For,  things  of  thyself,  they  expire  with  thee ; 
But  those  that  are  lent  from  on  high,  like  me, 
They  rise,  and  will  live,  from  thy  dust  set  free, 

To  the  regions  above  returning. 

"  And  if  true  to  thy  word,  and  just  thou  art, 
Like  the  spirit  that  dwells  in  the  holiest  heart, 
Unsullied  by  thee,  thou  wilt  let  me  depart, 

And  return  to  my  native  heaven ; 
For  I  would  be  placed  in  the  beautiful  bow, 
From  time  to  time,  in  thy  sight  to  glow — 
So  thou  mayst  remember  the  Flake  of  Snow 

By  the  promise  that  GOD  hath  given." 


llobman  JDrakc. 

THE     AMERICAN     FLAG. 


"1T7HEN  Freedom  from  her  mountain-height 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  Night, 
And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there. 


DRAKE.  131 

She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white, 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light ; 
Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  called  her  eagle-bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

u. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud, 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest-trumpings  loud, 
And  see  the  lightning-lances  driven, 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven — 
Child  of  the  sun  !  to  thee  'tis  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur-smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory  ! 

in. 

Flag  of  the  brave !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet-tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on. 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn ; 


132  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

And  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall, — 
Then  shall  thy  meteor-glances  glow, 

And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  beneath 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 

That  lovely  messenger  of  Death. 

IV. 

Flag  of  the  seas  !  on  ocean -wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave ; 
When  Death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendours  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

v. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home  ! 

By  angel-hands  to  Valour  given — 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us ' 


DRAKE.  133 


THE    CULPRIT    FAY. 

•M.Y  visual  orbs  are  purged  from  film,  and,  lo ! 

Instead  of  Anster's  turnip-bearing  vales, 
I  see  old  fairy-land's  miraculous  show  ! 

Her  trees  of  tinsel  kissed  by  freakish  gales, 
Her  ouphs  that,  cloaked  in  leaf-gold,  skim  the  breeze, 

And  fairies,  swarming " 

TENNANT'S  ANSTER  FAIR. 


9^T*IS  the  middle  watch  of  a  Summer's  night — 

•*•     The  earth  is  dark,  but  the  heavens  are  bright ; 
Naught  is  seen  in  the  vault  on  high 

But  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  and  the  cloudless  sky, 
And  the  flood  which  rolls  its  milky  hue, 
A  river  of  light  on  the  welkin  blue. 
The  moon  looks  down  on  old  Cronest ; 
She  mellows  the  shades  on  his  shaggy  breast, 
And  seems  his  huge  gray  form  to  throw 
In  a  silver  cone  on  the  wave  below ; 
His  sides  are  broken  by  spots  of  shade, 
By  the  walnut-bough  and  the  cedar  made, 
And  through  their  clustering  branches  dark 
Glimmers  and  dies  the  fire-fly's  spark — 
Like  starry  twinkles  that  momently  break 
Through  the  rifts  of  the  gathering  tempest's  rack. 

n. 

The  stars  are  on  the  moving  stream, 

And  fling,  as  its  ripples  gently  flow, 
A  burnished  length  of  wavy  beam 

In  an  eel-like,  spiral  line  below ; 


134  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

The  winds  are  whist,  and  the  owl  is  still ; 

The  bat  in  the  shelvy  rock  is  hid ; 
And  naught  is  heard  on  the  lonely  hill 
But  the  cricket's  chirp,  and  the  answer  shrill 

Of  the  gauze-winged  katy-did ; 
And  the  plaint  of  the  wailing  whip-poor-will, 

Who  moans  unseen,  and  ceaseless  sings, 
Ever  a  note  of  wail  and  woe, 

Till  Morning  spreads  her  rosy  wings, 
And  earth  and  sky  in  her  glances  glow. 

in. 

'Tis  the  hour  of  fairy  ban  and  spell : 
The  wood-tick  has  kept  the  minutes  well ; 
He  has  counted  them  all  with  click  and  stroke 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  mountain-oak, 
And  he  has  awakened  the  sentry  elve 

Who  sleeps  with  him  in  the  haunted  tree, 
To  bid  him  ring  the  hour  of  twelve, 

And  call  the  fays  to  their  revelry ; 
Twelve  small  strokes  on  his  tinkling  bell 
('Twas  made  of  the  white  snail's  pearly  shell) — 
"  Midnight  comes,  and  all  is  well ! 
Hither,  hither,  wing  your  way  ! 
'Tis  the  dawn  of  the  fairy-day." 

IV. 

They  come  from  beds  of  lichen  green, 
They  come  from  the  mullein's  velvet  screen ; 

Some  on  the  backs  of  beetles  fly 
From  the  silver  tops  of  moon-touched  trees, 

Where  they  swung  in  their  cobweb  hammocks  high, 
And  rocked  about  in  the  evening  breeze ; 


DRAKE.  135 

Some  from  the  hum-bird's  downy  nest — 
They  had  driven  him  out  by  elfin  power, 

And,  pillowed  on  plumes  of  his  rainbow  breast, 
Had  slumbered  there  till  the  charmed  hour; 

Some  had  lain  in  the  scoop  of  the  rock, 
With  glittering  ising-stars  inlaid  ; 

And  some  had  opened  the  four-o'clock, 
And  stole  within  its  purple  shade. 
And  now  they  throng  the  moonlight  glade, 

Above — below — on  every  side, 
Their  little  minim  forms  arrayed 

In  the  tricksy  pomp  of  fairy  pride  ! 

v. 

They  come  not  now  to  print  the  lea, 
In  freak  and  dance  around  the  tree, 
Or  at  the  mushroom  board  to  sup, 
And  drink  the  dew  from  the  buttercup;  — 
A  scene  of  sorrow  waits  them  now, 
For  an  ouphe  has  broken  his  vestal  vow ; 
He  has  loved  an  earthly  maid, 
And  left  for  her  his  woodland  shade ; 
He  has  lain  upon  her  lip  of  dew, 
And  sunned  him  in  her  eye  of  blue, 
Fanned  her  cheek  with  his  wing  of  air, 
Played  in  the  ringlets  of  her  hair, 
And,  nestling  on  her  snowy  breast, 
Forgot  the  lily-king's  behest. 
For  this  the  shadowy  tribes  of  air 

To  the  elfin  court  must  haste  away :  — 
And  now  they  stand  expectant  there, 

To  hear  the  doom  of  the  culprit  fay. 


136  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

VI. 

The  throne  was  reared  upon  the  grass, 
Of  spice- wood  and  of  sassafras ; 
On  pillars  of  mottled  tortoise-shell 

Hung  the  burnished  canopy — 
And  o'er  it  gorgeous  curtains  fell 

Of  the  tulip's  crimson  drapery. 
The  monarch  sat  on  his  judgment-seat, 

On  his  brow  the  crown  imperial  shone, 
The  prisoner  fay  was  at  his  feet, 

And  his  peers  were  ranged  around  the  throne. 
He  waved  his  sceptre  in  the  air, 

He  looked  around  and  calmly  spoke ; 
His  brow  was  grave  and  his  eye  severe, 

But  his  voice  in  a  softened  accent  broke : 

VII. 

"  Fairy  !  Fairy  !  list  and  mark  : 

Thou  hast  broke  thine  elfin  chain ; 
Thy  flame-wood  lamp  is  quenched  and  dark, 

And  thy  wings  are  dyed  with  a  deadly  stain — 
Thou  hast  sullied  thine  elfin  purity 

In  the  glance  of  a  mortal  maiden's  eye  ; 
Thou  hast  scorned,  our  dread  decree, 

And  thou  shouldst  pay  the  forfeit  high. 
But  well  I  know  her  sinless  mind 

Is  pure  as  the  angel-forms  above, 
Gentle  and  meek,  and  chaste  and  kind, 

Such  as  a  spirit  well  might  love ; 
Fairy  !  had  she  spot  or  taint, 
Bitter  had  been  thy  punishment : 


DRAKE.  137 

Tied  to  the  hornet's  shardy  wings ; 

Tossed  on  the  pricks  of  nettles'  stings ; 

Or  seven  long  ages  doomed  to  dwell 

With  the  lazy  worm  in  the  walnut-shell ; 

Or  every  night  to  writhe  and  bleed 

Beneath  the  tread  of  the  centipede ; 

Or  bound  in  a  cobweb  dungeon  dim, 

Your  jailer  a  spider,  huge  and  grim, 

Amid  the  carrion  bodies  to  lie 

Of  the  worm,  and  the  bug,  and  the  murdered  fly . 

These  it  had  been  your  lot  to  bear, 

Had  a  stain  been  found  on  the  earthly  fair. 

Now  list,  and  mark  our  mild  decree — 

Fairy,  this  your  doom  must  be : 

VIII. 

"  Thou  shah  seek  the  beach  of  sand 

Where  the  water  bounds  the  elfin-land ; 

Thou  shalt  watch  the  oozy  brine 

Till  the  sturgeon  leaps  in  the  bright  moonshine, 

Then  dart  the  glistening  arch  below, 

And  catch  a  drop  from  his  silver  bow. 

The  water-sprites  will  wield  their  arms 

And  dash  around  with  roar  and  rave, 
And  vain  are  the  woodland  spirits'  charms ; 

They  are  the  imps  that  rule  the  wave. 
Yet  trust  thee  in  thy  single  might : 
If  thy  heart  be  pure  and  thy  spirit  right, 
Thou  shalt  win  the  warlock  fight. 

IX. 

"  If  the  spray-bead  gem  be  won, 

The  stain  of  thy  wing  is  washed  away ; 


.38  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

But  another  errand  must  be  done 
Ere  thy  crime  be  lost  for  aye  : 
Thy  flame-wood  lamp  is  quenched  and  dark- 
Thou  must  reillume  its  spark. 
Mount  thy  steed,  and  spur  him  high 
To  the  heaven's  blue  canopy ; 
And  when  thou  seest  a  shooting  star, 
Follow  it  fast,  and  follow  it  far — 
The  last  faint  spark  of  its  burning  train 
Shall  light  the  elfin  lamp  again. 
Thou  hast  heard  our  sentence,  fay ; 
Hence  !  to  the  water-side,  away  !" 


The  goblin  marked  his  monarch  well ; 

He  spake  not,  but  he  bowed  him  low, 
Then  plucked  a  crimson  colen-bell, 

And  turned  him  round  in  act  to  go. 
The  way  is  long,  he  cannot  fly, 

His  soiled  wing  has  lost  its  power, 
And  he  winds  adown  the  mountain  high 

For  many  a  sore  and  weary  hour. 
Through  dreary  beds  of  tangled  fern, 
Through  groves  of  nightshade  dark  and  dern, 
Over  the  grass  and  through  the  brake, 
Where  toils  the  ant  and  sleeps  the  snake ; 

Now  o'er  the  violet's  azure  flush 
He  skips  along  in  lightsome  mood ; 

And  now  he  thrids  the  bramble-bush, 
Till  its  points  are  dyed  in  fairy  blood. 
He  has  leaped  the  bog,  he  has  pierced  the  brier, 
He  has  swum  the  brook,  and  waded  the  mire, 


DRAKE.  139 

Till  his  spirits  sank,  and  his  limbs  grew  weak, 
And  the  red  waxed  fainter  in  his  cheek. 
He  had  fallen  to  the  ground  outright, 

For  rugged  and  dim  was  his  onward  track, 
But  there  came  a  spotted  toad  in  sight, 

And  he  laughed  as  he  jumped  upon  her  back ; 
He  bridled  her  mouth  with  a  silkweed  twist, 

He  lashed  her  sides  with  an  osier  thong ; 
And  now,  through  evening's  dewy  mist, 

With  leap  and  spring  they  bound  along, 
Till  the  mountain's  magic  verge  is  past, 
And  the  beach  of  sand  is  reached  at  last. 

XI. 

Soft  and  pale  is  the  moony  beam, 
Moveless  still  the  glassy  stream  ; 
The  wave  is  clear,  the  beach  is  bright 

With  snowy  shells  and  sparkling  stones ; 
The  shore-surge  comes  in  ripples  light, 

In  murmurings  faint  and  distant  moans ; 
And  ever  afar  in  the  silence  deep 
Is  heard  the  splash  of  the  sturgeon's  leap, 
And  the  bend  of  his  graceful  bow  is  seen — 
A  glittering  arch  of  silver  sheen, 
Spanning  the  wave  of  burnished  blue, 
And  dripping  with  gems  of  the  river-dew. 

XII. 

The  elfin  cast  a  glance  around, 

As  he  lighted  down  from  his  courser  toad ; 
Then  round  his  breast  his  wings  he  wound, 

And  close  to  the  river's4)rink  he  strode; 


140  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

He  sprang  on  a  rock,  he  breathed  a  prayer, 
Above  his  head  his  arms  he  threw, 

Then  tossed  a  tiny  curve  in  air, 

And  headlong  plunged  in  the  waters  blue. 

xm. 

Up  sprang  the  spirits  of  the  waves, 

From  the  sea-silk  beds  in  their  coral  caves ; 

With  snail-plate  armour  snatched  in  haste, 

They  speed  their  way  through  the  liquid  waste 

Some  are  rapidly  borne  along 

On  the  mailed  shrimp  or  the  prickly  prong  ; 

Some  on  the  blood-red  leeches  glide, 

Some  on  the  stony  star-fish  ride, 

Some  on  the  back  of  the  lancing  squab, 

Some  on  the  sideling  soldier-crab  ; 

And  some  on  the  jellied  quarl,  that  flings 

At  once  a  thousand  streamy  stings ; 

They  cut  the  wave  with  the  living  oar, 

And  hurry  on  to  the  moonlight  shore, 

To  guard  their  realms  and  chase  away 

The  footsteps  of  the  invading  fay. 

XIV. 

Fearlessly  he  skims  along, 
His  hope  is  high,  and  his  limbs  are  strong ; 
He  spreads  his  arms  like  the  swallow's  wing, 
And  throws  his  feet  with  a  frog-like  fling ; 
His  locks  of  gold  on  the  waters  shine, 

At  his  breast  the  tiny  foam-bees  rise, 
His  back  gleams  bright  above  the  brine, 

And  the  wake-line  foam  behind  him  lies. 


DRAKE.  141 

But  the  water-sprites  are  gathering  near, 

To  check  his  course  along  the  tide ; 
Their  warriors  come  in  swift  career, 

And  hem  him  round  on  every  side : 
On  his  thigh  the  leech  has  fixed  his  hold, 
The  quarl's  long  arms  are  round  him  rolled, 
The  prickly  prong  has  pierced  his  skin, 
And  the  squab  has  thrown  his  javelin ; 
The  gritty  star  has  rubbed  him  raw, 
And  the  crab  has  struck  with  his  giant  claw ; 
He  howls  with  rage,  and  he  shrieks  with  pain ; 
He  strikes  around,  but  his  blows  are  vain ; 
Hopeless  is  the  unequal  fight — 
Fairy  !  naught  is  left  but  flight. 

xv. 

He  turned  him  round,  and  fled  amain 

With  hurry  and  dash  to  the  beach  again ; 

He  twisted  over  from  side  to  side, 

And  laid  his  cheek  to  the  cleaving  tide ; 

The  strokes  of  his  plunging  arms  are  fleet, 

And  with  all  his  might  he  flings  his  feet, 

But  the  water-sprites  are  round  him  still, 

To  cross  his  path  and  work  him  ill. 

They  bade  the  wave  before  him  rise ; 

They  flung  the  sea-fire  in  his  eyes ; 

And  they  stunned  his  ears  with  the  scallop  stroke, 

With  the  porpoise  heave  and  the  drum-fish  croak. 

Oh !  but  a  weary  wight  was  he 

When  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  dog-wood-tree. 

— Gashed  and  wounded,  and  stiff  and  sore, 

He  laid  him  down  on  the  sandy  shore ; 


142  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

He  blessed  the  force  of  the  charmed  line, 
And  he  banned  the  water-goblin's  spite, 
For  he  saw  around  in  the  sweet  moonshine 
Their  little  wee  faces  above  the  brine, 

Giggling  and  laughing  with  all  their  might 
At  the  piteous  hap  of  the  fairy  wight. 

XVI. 

Soon  he  gathered  the  balsam  dew 

From  the  sorrel-leaf  and  the  henbane-bud ; 

Over  each  wound  the  balm  he  drew, 

And  with  cobweb-lint  he  stanched  the  blood. 

The  mild  west  wind  was  soft  and  low, 

It  cooled  the  heat  of  his  burning  brow ; 

And  he  felt  new  life  in  his  sinews  shoot, 

As  he  drank  the  juice  of  the  calamus-root ; 

And  now  he  treads  the  fatal  shore 

As  fresh  and  vigorous  as  before. 

v. 

XVII. 

Wrapped  in  musing  stands  the  sprite  : 
'Tis  the  middle  wane  of  night ; 

His  task  is  hard,  his  way  is  far, 
But  he  must  do  his  errand  right 

Ere  Dawning  mounts  her  beamy  car, 
And  rolls  her  chariot-wheels  of  light ; 
And  vain  are  the  spells  of  fairy-land — 
He  must  work  with  a  human  hand. 

XVIII. 

He  cast  a  saddened  look  around ; 
But  he  felt  new  joy  his  bosom  swell, 


DRAKE.  143 

When,  glittering  on  the  shadowed  ground, 

He  saw  a  purple  mussel-shell ; 
Thither  he  ran,  and  he  bent  him  low, 
He  heaved  at  the  stern  and  he  heaved  at  the  bow, 
And  he  pushed  her  over  the  yielding  sand, 
Till  he  came  to  the  verge  of  the  haunted  land. 
She  was  as  lovely  a  pleasure-boat 

As  ever  fairy  had  paddled  in, 
For  she  glowed  with  purple  paint  without, 

And  shone  with  silvery  pearl  within ; 
A  sculler's  notch  in  the  stern  he  made, 
An  oar  he  shaped  of  the  bootle-blade ; 
Then  sprang  to  his  seat  with  a  lightsome  leap, 
And  launched  afar  on  the  calm,  blue  deep. 

XIX. 

The  imps  of  the  river  yell  and  rave ; 
They  had  no  power  above  the  wave ; 
But  they  heaved  the  billow  before  the  prow, 

And  they  dashed  the  surge  against  her  side, 
And  they  struck  her  keel  with  jerk  and  blow, 

Till  the  gunwale  bent  to  the  rocking  tide. 
She  whimpled  about  to  the  pale  moonbeam, 
Like  a  feather  that  floats  on  a  wind-tossed  stream 
And  momently  athwart  her  track 
The  quarl  upreared  his  island-back, 
And  the  fluttering  scallop  behind  would  float, 
And  patter  the  water  about  the  boat ; 
But  he  bailed  her  out  with  his  colen-bell, 

And  he  kept  her  trimmed  with  a  wary  tread, 
While  on  every  side  like  lightning  fell 

The  heavy  strokes  of  his  bootle-blade. 


»44  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 


xx. 

Onward  still  he  held  his  way, 

Till  he  came  where  the  column  of  moonshine  lay, 

And  saw  beneath  the  surface  dim 

The  brown-backed  sturgeon  slowly  swim ; 

Around  him  were  the  goblin  train — 

But  he  sculled  with  all  his  might  and  main, 

And  followed  wherever  the  sturgeon  led, 

Till  he  saw  him  upward  point  his  head ; 

Then  he  dropped  his  paddle-blade, 

And  held  his  colen-goblet  up 

To  catch  the  drop  in  its  crimson  cup. 


XXI. 

With  sweeping  tail  and  quivering  fin 

Through  the  wave  the  sturgeon  flew, 
And,  like  the  heaven-shot  javelin, 

He  sprang  above  the  waters  blue. 
Instant  as  the  star-fall  light, 

He  plunged  him  in  the  deep  again, 
But  he  left  an  arch  of  silver  bright, 

The  rainbow  of  the  moony  main. 
It  was  a  strange  and  lovely  sight 

To  see  the  puny  goblin  there ; 
He  seemed  an  angel  form  of  light, 

With  azure  wing  and  sunny  hair, 

Throned  on  a  cloud  of  purple  fair, 
Circled  with  blue  and  edged  with  white, 
And  sitting  at  the  fall  of  even 
Beneath  the  bow  of  summer  heaven. 


DRAKE.  145 

XXII. 

A  moment,  and  its  lustre  fell ; 

But  ere  it  met  the  billow  blue, 
He  caught  within  his  crimson  bell 

A  droplet  of  its  sparkling  dew. — 
Joy  to  thee,  fay  !  thy  task  is  done, 
Thy  wings  are  pure,  for  the  gem  is  won — 
Cheerly  ply  thy  dripping  oar, 
And  haste  away  to  the  elfin  shore. 

XXIII. 

He  turns,  and,  lo  !  on  either  side 

The  ripples  on  his  path  divide ; 

And  the  track  o'er  which  his  boat  must  pass 

Is  smooth  as  a  sheet  of  polished  glass. 

Around,  their  limbs  the  sea-nymphs  lave, 

With  snowy  arms  half-swelling  out, 
While  on  the  glossed  and  gleamy  wave 

Their  sea-green  ringlets  loosely  float ; 
They  swim  around  with  smile  and  song ; 

They  press  the  bark  with  pearly  hand, 
And  gently  urge  her  course  along, 

Toward  the  beach  of  speckled  sand ; 

And,  as  he  lightly  leaped  to  land, 
They  bade  adieu  with  nod  and  bow ; 

Then  gayly  kissed  each  little  hand, 
And  dropped  in  the  crystal  deep  below. 

XXIV. 

A  moment  stayed  the  fairy  there ; 
He  kissed  the  beach,  and  breathed  a  prayer ; 
Then  spread  his  wings  of  gilded  blue, 
And  on  to  the  elfin  court  he  flew ; 


1 46  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

As  ever  ye  saw  a  bubble  rise, 
And  shine  with  a  thousand  changing  dyes, 
Till,  lessening  far,  through  ether  driven, 
It  mingles  with  the  hues  of  heaven ; 
As,  at  the  glimpse  of  morning  pale, 
The  lance-fly  spreads  his  silken  sail, 
And  gleams  with  blendings  soft  and  bright, 
Till  lost  in  the  shades  of  fading  night : 
So  rose  from  earth  the  lovely  fay — 

So  vanished,  far  in  heaven  away ! 

*        *        #        *        *        *        * 
Up,  fairy  !  quit  thy  chick-weed  bower, 
The  cricket  has  called  the  second  hour; 
Twice  again,  and  the  lark  will  rise 
To  kiss  the  streaking  of  the  skies — 
Up  !  thy  charmed  armour  don, 
Thou'lt  need  it  ere  the  night  be  gone. 

XXV. 

He  put  his  acorn  helmet  on ; 

It  was  plumed  of  the  silk  of  the  thistle-down ; 

The  corslet-plate  that  guarded  his  breast 

Was  once  the  wild  bee's  golden  vest ; 

His  cloak,  of  a  thousand  mingled  dyes, 

Was  formed  of  the  wings  of  butterflies ; 

His  shield  was  the  shell  of  a  lady-bug  queen, 

Studs  of  gold  on  a  ground  of  green ; 

And  the  quivering  lance  which  he  brandished  bright, 

Was  the  sting  of  a  wasp  he  had  slain  in  fight. 

Swift  he  bestrode  his  fire-fly  steed ; 

He  bared  his  blade  of  the  bent-grass  blue ; 
He  drove  his  spurs  of  the  cockle-seed, 

And  away  like  a  glance  of  thought  he  flew, 


DRAKE.  147 


To  skim  the  heavens,  and  follow  far 
The  fiery  trail  of  the  rocket-star. 


XXVI. 

The  moth-fly,  as  he  shot  in  air, 

Crept  under  the  leaf,  and  hid  her  there ; 

The  katy-did  forgot  its  lay, 

The  prowling  gnat  fled  fast  away ; 

The  fell  mosquito  checked  his  drone, 

And  folded  his  wings  till  the  fay  was  gone ; 

And  the  wily  beetle  dropped  his  head, 

And  fell  on  the  ground  as  if  he  were  dead  : 

They  crouched  them  close  in  the  darksome  shade, 

They  quaked  all  o'er  with  awe  and  fear, 
For  they  had  felt  the  blue-bent  blade, 

And  writhed  at  the  prick  of  the  elfin  spear. 
Many  a  time,  on  a  summer's  night, 
When  the  sky  was  clear  and  the  moon  was  bright, 
They  had  been  roused  from  the  haunted  ground 
By  the  yelp  and  bay  of  the  fairy  hound ; 

They  had  heard  the  tiny  bugle-horn, 
They  had  heard  the  twang  of  the  maize-silk  string, 

When  the  vine-twig  bows  were  tightly  drawn, 

And  the  needle-shaft  through  air  was  borne, 
Feathered  with  down  of  the  hum-bird's  wing. 
And  now  they  deemed  the  courier  ouphe 

Some  hunter-sprite  of  the  elfin  ground ; 
And  they  watched  till  they  saw  him  mount  the  roof 

That  canopies  the  world  around  j 
Then  glad  they  left  their  covert  lair, 
And  freaked  about  in  the  midnight  air. 


148  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

XXVII. 

Up  to  the  vaulted  firmament 

His  path  the  fire-fly  courser  bent, 

And,  at  every  gallop  on  the  wind, 

He  flung  a  glittering  spark  behind ; 

He  flies  like  a  feather  in  the  blast 

Till  the  first  light  cloud  in  heaven  is  past. 

But  the  shapes  of  air  have  begun  their  work, 
And  a  drizzly  mist  is  round  him  cast ; 

He  cannot  see  through  the  mantle  murk ; 
He  shivers  with  cold,  but  he  urges  fast ; 

Through  storm  and  darkness,  sleet  and  shade, 
He  lashes  his  steed,  and  spurs  amain — 
For  shadowy  hands  have  twitched  the  rein, 

And  flame-shot  tongues  around  him  played, 
And  near  him  many  a  fiendish  eye 
Glared  with  a  fell  malignity, 
And  yells  of  rage,  and  shrieks  of  fear, 
Came  screaming  on  his  startled  ear. 

XXVIII. 

His  wings  are  wet  around  his  breast, 
The  plume  hangs  dripping  from  his  crest, 
His  eyes  are  blurred  with  the  lightning's  glare, 
And  his  ears  are  stunned  with  the  thunder's  blare ; 
But  he  gave  a  shout,  and  his  blade  he  drew ; 

He  thrust  before  and  he  struck  behind, 
Till  he  pierced  their  cloudy  bodies  through, 

And  gashed  their  shadowy  limbs  of  wind. 
Howling  the  misty  spectres  flew ; 

They  rend  the  air  with  frightful  cries ; 


DRAKE.  149 

For  he  has  gained  the  welkin  blue, 

And  the  land  of  clouds  beneath  him  lies. 

XXIX. 

Up  to  the  cope  careering  swift, 

In  breathless  motion  fast, 
Fleet  as  the  swallow  cuts  the  drift, 

Or  the  sea-roc  rides  the  blast, 
The  sapphire  sheet  of  eve  is  shot, 

The  sphered  moon  is  past, 
The  earth  but  seems  a  tiny  blot 

On  a  sheet  of  azure  cast. 
Oh,  it  was  sweet,  in  the  clear  moonlight, 

To  tread  the  starry  plain  of  even  ! 
To  meet  the  thousand  eyes  of  night, 

And  feel  the  cooling  breath  of  heaven  ! 
But  the  elfin  made  no  stop  or  stay 
Till  he  came  to  the  bank  of  the  milky-way ; 
Then  he  checked  his  courser's  foot, 
And  watched  for  the  glimpse  of  the  planet-shoot. 

XXX. 

Sudden  along  the  snowy  tide 

That  swelled  to  meet  their  footsteps'  fall, 
The  sylphs  of  heaven  were  seen  to  glide, 

Attired  in  sunset's  crimson  pall ; 
Around  the  fay  they  weave  the  dance, 

They  skip  before  him  on  the  plain, 
And  one  has  taken  his  wasp-sting  lance, 

And  one  upholds  his  bridle-rein ; 
With  warblings  wild  they  lead  him  on 

To  where,  through  clouds  of  amber  seen, 


15°  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

Studded  with  stars,  resplendent  shone 

The  palace  of  the  sylphid  queen. 
Its  spiral  columns,  gleaming  bright, 
Were  streamers  of  the  northern  light ; 
Its  curtain's  light  and  lovely  flush 
Was  of  the  morning's  rosy  blush ; 
And  the  ceiling  fair  that  rose  aboon, 
The  white  and  feathery  fleece  of  noon. 


XXXI. 


But,  oh  !  how  fair  the  shape  that  lay 

Beneath  a  rainbow  bending  bright ! 
She  seemed  to  the  entranced  fay 

The  loveliest  of  the  forms  of  light : 
Her  mantle  was  the  purple  rolled 

At  twilight  in  the  west  afar; 
'Twas  tied  with  threads  of  dawning  gold, 

And  buttoned  with  a  sparkling  star. 
Her  face  was  like  the  lily  roon 

That  veils  the  vestal  planet's  hue ; 
Her  eyes,  two  beamlets  from  the  moon, 

Set  floating  in  the  welkin  blue. 
Her  hair  is  like  the  sunny  beam, 
And  the  diamond-gems  which  round  it  gleam 
Are  the  pure  drops  of  dewy  even 
That  ne'er  have  left  their  native  heaven. 


XXXII. 


She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  wondering  sprite, 
And  they  leaped  with  smiles ;   for  well  I  ween 

Never  before  in  the  bowers  of  light 

Had  the  form  of  an  earthly  fay  been  seen. 


DRAKE.  151 

Long  she  looked  in  his  tiny  face ; 

Long  with  his  butterfly  cloak  she  played ; 
She  smoothed  his  wings  of  azure  lace, 

And  handled  the  tassel  of  his  blade ; 
And  as  he  told,  in  accents  low, 
The  story  of  his  love  and  woe, 
She  felt  new  pains  in  her  bosom  rise, 
And  the  tear-drop  started  in  her  eyes. 
And  "  O,  sweet  spirit  of  earth,"  she  cried, 

"  Return  no  more  to  your  woodland  height, 
But  ever  here  with  me  abide 

In  the  land  of  everlasting  light ! 
Within  the  fleecy  drift  we'll  lie ; 

We'll  hang  upon  the  rainbow's  rim  ; 
And  all  the  jewels  of  the  sky 

Around  thy  brow  shall  brightly  beam  ! 

And  thou  shalt  bathe  thee  in  the  stream 
That  rolls  its  whitening  foam  aboon, 

And  ride  upon  the  lightning's  gleam, 
And  dance  upon  the  orbed  moon  ! 

We'll  sit  within  the  Pleiad  ring, 
We'll  rest  on  Orion's  starry  belt, 

And  I  will  bid  my  sylphs  to  sing 
The  song  that  makes  the  dew-mist  melt ; 

Their  harps  are  of  the  umber  shade 
That  hides  the  blush  of  waking  day, 

And  every  gleamy  string  is  made 
Of  silvery  moonshine's  lengthened  ray  ; 

And  thou  shalt  pillow  on  my  breast, 
While  heavenly  breathings  float  around, 

And,  with  the  sylphs  of  ether  blest, 
Forget  the  joys  of  fairy  ground." 


152  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

XXXIII. 

She  was  lovely  and  fair  to  see, 

And  the  elfin's  heart  beat  fitfully ; 

But  lovelier  far,  and  still  more  fair, 

The  earthly  form  imprinted  there ; 

Naught  he  saw  in  the  heavens  above 

Was  half  so  dear  as  his  mortal  love, 

For  he  thought  upon  her  looks  to  meek, 

And  he  thought  of  the  light  flush  on  her  cheek ; 

Never  again  might  he  bask  and  lie ; 

On  that  sweet  cheek  and  moonlight  eye  ; 

But  in  his  dreams  her  form  to  see, 

To  clasp  her  in  his  revery, 

To  think  upon  his  virgin  bride, 

Was  worth  all  heaven,  and  earth  beside. 

xxxiv. 

"  Lady,"  he  cried,  "  I  have  sworn  to-night, 
On  the  word  of  a  fairy  knight, 
To  do  my  sentence-task  aright ; 
My  honour  scarce  is  free  from  stain — 
I  may  not  soil  its  snows  again ; 
Betide  me  weal,  betide  me  woe, 
Its  mandate  must  be  answered  now." 
Her  bosom  heaved  with  many  a  sigh, 
The  tear  was  in  her  drooping  eye ; 
But  she  led  him  to  the  palace  gate, 

And  called  the  sylphs  who  hovered  there, 
And  bade  them  fly  and  bring  him  straight, 

Of  clouds  condensed,  a  sable  car. 
With  charm  and  spell  she  blessed  it  there, 
From  all  the  fiends  of  upper  air ; 


DRAKE..  153 

Then  round  him  cast  the  shadowy  shroud, 
And  tied  his  steed  behind  the  cloud ; 
And  pressed  his  hand  as  she  bade  him  fly 
Far  to  the  verge  of  the  northern  sky, 
For  by  its  wane  and  wavering  light 
There  was  a  star  would  fall  to-night. 

xxxv. 

Borne  afar  on  the  wings  of  the  blast, 
Northward  away,  he  speeds  him  fast, 
And  his  courser  follows  the  cloudy  wain 
Till  the  hoof-strokes  fall  like  pattering  rain. 
The  clouds  roll  backward  as  he  flies, 
Each  flickering  star  behind  him  lies, 
And  he  has  reached  the  northern  plain, 
And  backed  his  fire-fly  steed  again, 
Ready  to  follow  in  its  flight 
The  streaming  of  the  rocket-light. 

XXXVI. 

The  star  is  yet  in  the  vault  of  heaven, 

But  it  rocks  in  the  summer  gale ; 
And  now  'tis  fitful  and  uneven, 

And  now  'tis  deadly  paie ; 
And  now  'tis  wrapped  in  sulphur-smoke, 

And  quenched  is  its  rayless  beam  ; 
And  now  with  a  rattling  thunder-stroke 

It  bursts  in  flash  and  flame. 
As  swift  as  the  glance  of  the  arrowy  lance 

That  the  storm-spirit  flings  from  high, 
The  star-shot  flew  o'er  the  welkin  blue, 

As  it  fell  from  the  sheeted  sky. 


154  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

As  swift  as  the  wind  in  its  train  behind 

The  elfin  gallops  along : 
The  fiends  of  the  clouds  are  bellowing  loud, 

But  the  sylphid  charm  is  strong ; 
He  gallops  unhurt  in  the  shower  of  fire, 

While  the  cloud-fiends  fly  from  the  blaze  ; 
He  watches  each  flake  till  its  sparks  expire, 

And  rides  in  the  light  of  its  rays. 
But  he  drove  his  steed  to  the  lightning's  speed, 

And  caught  a  glimmering  spark ; 
Then  wheeled  around  to  the  fairy  ground, 

And  sped  through  the  midnight  dark. 


Ouphe  and  goblin  !  imp  and  sprite  ! 

Elf  of  eve  !  and  starry  fay  ! 
Ye  that  love  the  moon's  soft  light, 

Hither — hither  wend  your  way  ; 
Twine  ye  in  a  jocund  ring, 

Sing  and  trip  it  merrily, 
Hand  to  hand,  and  wing  to  wing, 

Round  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

Hail  the  wanderer  again 

With  dance  and  song,  and  lute  and  lyre ; 
Pure  his  wing  and  strong  his  chain, 

And  doubly  bright  his  fairy  fire. 
Twine  ye  in  an  airy  round, 

Brush  the  dew  and  print  the  lea ; 
Skip  and  gambol,  hop  and  bound, 

Round  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 


HALLECK.  155 

The  beetle  guards  our  holy  ground, 

He  flies  about  the  haunted  place, 
And  if  mortal  there  be  found, 

He  hums  in  his  ears  and  flaps  his  face  ; 
The  leaf-harp  sounds  our  roundelay, 

The  owlet's  eyes  our  lanterns  be ; 
Thus  we  sing,  and  dance,  and  play, 

Round  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

But,  hark  !  from  tower  on  tree-top  high, 

The  sentry-elf  his  call  has  made ; 
A  streak  is  in  the  eastern  sky, 

Shapes  of  moonlight !   flit  and  fade  ! 
The  hill-tops  gleam  in  Morning's  spring, 
The  sky-lark  shakes  his  dappled  wing, 
The  day-glimpse  glimmers  on  the  lawn, 
The  cock  has  crowed,  and  the  fays  are  gone. 


fjalleck. 

MARCO      BOZZARIS. 

A  T   midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 
•***     The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power. 
In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror ; 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet-ring — 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne — a  king ; 


156  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 
As  Eden's  garden-bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

BOZZARIS  ranged  his  Suliote  band — - 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood 

On  old  Plataea's  day  ; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there, 
With  arms  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far,  as  they. 

An  hour  passed  on — the  Turk  awoke  : 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 
He  woke — to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 
"  To  arms !  they  come  !  the  Greek  !  the  Greek  !" 
He  woke — to  die  midst  flame,  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre- stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain-cloud ; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

BOZZARIS  cheer  his  band  : 
"  Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires ; 
Strike — for  ycur  altars  and  your  fires ; 
Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires ; 

GOD — and  your  native  land  !" 

They  fought — like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain ; 
They  conquered — but  BOZZARIS  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 


HALLE  GK.  157 

His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 

His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won  ; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal-chamber,  Death  ! 

Come  to  the  mother's,  when  she  feels, 
For  the  first  time,  her  first-born's  breath ; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke ; 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form, 
The  earthquake-shock,  the  ocean-storm ; 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm, 

With  banquet-song,  and  dance,  and  wine ; 
And  thou  art  terrible — the  tear, 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier ; 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 

Of  agony,  are  thine. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word ; 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Come,  when  his  task  of  Fame  is  wrought — 
Come,  with  her  laurel-leaf,  blood-bought — 

Come  in  her  crowning  hour — and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 

Of  sky  and  scars  to  prisoned  men  ; 


158  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land ; 
Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 

To  the  world-seeking  Genoese, 
When  the  land-wind,  from  woods  of  palm, 
And  orange-groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 

Blew  o'er  the  Haytian  seas. 

BOZZARIS  !  with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 
She  wore  no  funeral-weeds  for  thee, 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume, 
Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree, 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry, 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb. 
But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved,  and  for  a  season  gone ; 
For  thee  her  poet's  lyre  is  wreathed, 
Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed  ; 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birthday  bells ; 
Of  thee  her  babes'  first  lisping  tells ; 
For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said 
At  palace  couch,  and  cottage  bed  ; 
Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe, 
Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow ; 
His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 
For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young  years, 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  tears. 

And  she,  the  mother  of  thy  boys, 


HALLECK.  159 

Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak, 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys — 
And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, 
Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh ; 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's — 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 


CONNECTICUT. 

\  ND  still  her  gray  rocks  tower  above  the  sea 
4^     That  murmurs  at  their  feet,  a  conquered  wave ; 
'Tis  a  rough  land  of  earth,  and  stone,  and  tree, 

Where  breathes  no  castled  lord  or  cabined  slave ; 
Where  thoughts,  and  tongues,  and  hands  are  bold  and  free, 

And  friends  will  find  a  welcome,  foes  a  grave ; 
And  where  none  kneel,  save  when  to  Heaven  they  pray, 
Nor  even  then,  unless  in  their  own  way. 

Theirs  is  a  pure  republic,  wild,  yet  strong, 
A  "  fierce  democracie,"  where  all  are  true 

To  what  themselves  have  voted — right  or  wrong — 
And  to  their  laws,  denominated  blue 

(If  red,  they  might  to  DRACO'S  code  belong)  ; 
A  vestal  state,  which  power  could  not  subdue, 

Nor  promise  win — like  her  own  eagle's  nest, 

Sacred — the  San  Marino  of  the  West. 

A  justice  of  the  peace,  for  the  time  being, 

They  bow  to,  but  may  turn  him  out  next  year  : 


1 60  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

They  reverence  their  priest,  but,  disagreeing 
In  price  or  creed,  dismiss  him  without  fear ; 

They  have  a  natural  talent  for  foreseeing 

And  knowing  all  things ;   and  should  PARK  appear 

From  his  long  tour  in  Africa,  to  show 

The  Niger's  source,  they'd  meet  him  with — "We  know  !" 

They  love  their  land,  because  it  is  their  own, 
And  scorn  to  give  aught  other  reason  why ; 

Would  shake  hands  with  a  king  upon  his  throne, 
And  think  it  kindness  to  his  majesty ; 

A  stubborn  race,  fearing  and  nattering  none. 

Such  are  they  nurtured,  such  they  live  and  die : 

All — but  a  few  apostates,  who  are  meddling 

With  merchandise,  pounds,  shillings,  pence,  and  peddling ; 

Or,  wandering  through  the  Southern  countries,  teaching 
The  ABC  from  WEBSTER'S  spelling-book ; 

Gallant  and  godly,  making  love  and  preaching, 

And  gaining,  by  what  they  call  "  hook  and  crook." 

And  what  the  moralists  call  overreaching, 
A  decent  living.     The  Virginians  look 

Upon  them  with  as  favourable  eyes 

As  GABRIEL  on  the  devil  in  Paradise. 

But  these  are  but  their  outcasts.      View  them  near 
At  home,  where  all  their  worth  and  pride  is  placed ; 

And  there  their  hospitable  fires  burn  clear, 

And  there  the  lowliest  farmhouse  hearth  is  graced 

With  manly  hearts,  in  .piety  sincere, 

Faithful  in  love,  in  honour  stern  and  chaste, 

In  friendship  warm  and  true,  in  danger  brave, 

Beloved  in  life,  and  sainted  in  the  grave. 


IIALLECK.  161 

And  minds  have  there  been  nurtured,  whose  control 

Is  felt  even  in  their  nation's  destiny  j 
Men  who  swayed  senates  with  a  statesman's  soul, 

And  looked  on  armies  with  a  leader's  eye ; 
Names  that  adorn  and  dignify  the  scroll 

Whose  leaves  contain  their  country's  history. 
#          *****          * 

Hers  are  not  Tempe's  nor  Arcadia's  spring, 
Nor  the  long  summer  of  Cathayan  vales, 

The  vines,  the  flowers,  the  air,  the  skies,  that  fling 
Such  wild  enchantment  o'er  BOCCACCIO'S  tales 

Of  Florence  and  the  Arno — yet  the  wing 
Of  life's  best  angel,  health,  is  on  her  gales 

Through  sun  and  snow — and,  in  the  autumn-time, 

Earth  has  no  purer  and  no  lovelier  clime. 

Her  clear,  warm  heaven  at  noon, — the  mist  that  shrouds 
Her  twilight  hills, — her  cool  and  starry  eves, 

The  glorious  splendour  of  her  sunset  clouds, 
The  rainbow  beauty  of  her  forest  leaves, 

Come  o'er  the  eye,  in  solitude  and  crowds, 
Where'er  his  web  of  song  her  poet  weaves ; 

And  his  mind's  brightest  vision  but  displays 

The  autumn  scenery  of  his  boyhood's  days. 

And  when  you  dream  of  woman,  and  her  love ; 

Her  truth,  her  tenderness,  her  gentle  power ; 
The  maiden,  listening  in  the  moonlight  grove ; 

The  mother,  smiling  in  her  infant's  bower ; 
Forms,  features,  worshipped  while  we  breathe  or  move, 

Be,  by  some  spirit  of  your  dreaming  hour, 
Borne,  like  Loretto's  chapel,  through  the  air 
To  the  green  land  I  sing,  then  wake  ;  you'll  find  them  there. 


162  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 


THE    WORLD    IS    BRIGHT    BEFORE    THEE. 

'  I  ^HE  world  is  bright  before  thee ; 
Its  summer  flowers  are  thine ; 
Its  calm  blue  sky  is  o'er  thee, 

Thy  bosom  Pleasure's  shrine  ; 
And  thine  the  sunbeam  given 

To  Nature's  morning  hour, 
Pure,  warm,  as  when  from  heaven 

It  burst  on  Eden's  bower. 

There  is  a  song  of  sorrow, 

The  death-dirge  of  the  gay, 
That  tells,  ere  dawn  of  morrow, 

These  charms  may  melt  away — 
That  sun's  bright  beam  be  shaded, 

That  sky  be  blue  no  more, 
The  summer  flowers  be  faded, 

And  youth's  warm  promise  o'er. 

Believe  it  not ;  though  lonely 

Thy  evening  home  may  be ; 
Though  Beauty's  bark  can  only 

Float  on  a  summer  sea, 
Though  Time  thy  bloom  is  stealing, 

There's  still,  beyond  his  art, 
The  wild-flower  wreath  of  feeling, 

The  sunbeam  of  the  heart. 


MKS.    HALE.  163 


Saral)  lane 

THE     LIGHT     OF     HOME. 

A/TY  son,  thou  wilt  dream  the  world  is  fair, 
*•**•     And  thy  spirit  will  sigh  to  roam  — 
And  thou  must  go  ;  —  but  never,  when  there, 
Forget  the  light  of  home  ! 

Though  Pleasure  may  smile  with  a  ray  more  bright, 

It  dazzles  to  lead  astray  ; 
Like  the  meteor's  flash,  'twill  deepen  the  night 

When  treading  thy  lonely  way  : 

But  the  hearth  of  home  has  a  constant  flame, 

And  pure  as  vestal  fire  ; 
'Twill  burn,  'twill  burn  forever  the  same, 

For  Nature  feeds  the  pyre. 

The  sea  of  Ambition  is  tempest-tossed, 
And  thy  hopes  may  vanish  like  foam  : 

When  sails  are  shivered  and  compass  lost, 
Then  look  to  the  light  of  home  ! 

And  there,  like  a  star  through  the  midnight  cloud, 

Thou  shalt  see  the  beacon  bright  ; 
For  never,  till  shining  on  thy  shroud, 

Can  be  quenched  its  holy  light. 

The  sun  of  Fame  may  gild  the  name, 

But  the  heart  ne'er  felt  its  ray  ; 
And  Fashion's  smiles,  that  rich  ones  claim, 

Are  beams  of  a  wintry  day  : 


164  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

How  cold  and  dim  those  beams  would  be, 
Should  life's  poor  wanderer  come  ! — 

My  son,  when  the  world  is  dark  to  thee, 
Then  turn  to  the  light  of  home. 


THE     TWO     MAIDENS. 

E  came  with  light  and  laughing  air, 
And  cheek  like  opening  blossom — 
Bright  gems  were  twined  amid  her  hair, 

And  glittered  on  her  bosom  ; 
And  pearls  and  costly  diamonds  deck 
Her  round  white  arms  and  lovely  neck. 

Like  summer's  sky,  with  stars  bedight, 
The  jewelled  robe  around  her, 

And  dazzling  as  the  noontide  light 
The  radiant  zone  that  bound  her — 

And  pride  and  joy  were  in  her  eye, 

And  mortals  bowed  as  she  passed  by. 

Another  came :  o'er  her  sweet  face 
A  pensive  shade  was  stealing ; 

Yet  there  no  grief  of  earth  we  trace — 
But  the  Heaven-hallowed  feeling 

Which  mourns  the  heart  should  ever  stray 

From  the  pure  fount  of  truth  away. 

Around  her  brow,  as  snow-drop  fair, 
The  glossy  tresses  cluster, 


BRAINARD.  165 

Nor  pearl  nor  ornament  was  there, 

Save  the  meek  spirit's  lustre ; 
And  faith  and  hope  beamed  in  her  eye, 
And  angels  bowed  as  she  passed  by. 


3ol)n  <£>.  C  Brainavb. 

THE      DEEP. 

>T*HERE'S  beauty  in  the  deep  :— 
•*•     The  wave  is  bluer  than  the  sky ; 
And,  though  the  lights  shine  bright  on  high, 
More  softly  do  the  sea-gems  glow, 
That  sparkle  in  the  depths  below ; 
The  rainbow's  tints  are  only  made 
When  on  the  waters  they  are  laid ; 
And  sun  and  moon  most  sweetly  shine 
Upon  the  ocean's  level  brine. 
There's  beauty  in  the  deep. 

There's  music  in  the  deep  : — 
It  is  not  in  the  surf's  rough  roar, 
Nor  in  the  whispering,  shelly  shore, — 
They  are  but  earthly  sounds,  that  tell 
How  little  of  the  sea-nymph's  shell, 
That  sends  its  loud,  clear  note  abroad, 
Or  winds  its  softness  through  the  flood, 
Echoes  through  groves,  with  coral  gay, 
And  dies,  on  spongy  banks,  away. 

There's  music  in  the  deep. 


1 66  G  OLDEN   LEAVE  S. 

There's  quiet  in  the  deep  : — 
Above,  let  tides  and  tempests  rave, 
And  earth-born  whirlwinds  wake  the  wave ; 
Above,  let  Care  and  Fear  contend 
With  Sin  and  Sorrow,  to  the  end  : 
Here,  far  beneath  the  tainted  foam 
That  frets  above  our  peaceful  home, 
We  dream  in  joy,  and  wake  in  love, 
Nor  know  the  rage  that  yells  above. 

There's  quiet  in  the  deep. 


THE     INDIAN     SUMMER. 

is  there  saddening  in  the  autumn  leaves ? 
Have  they  that  "green  and  yellow  melancholy" 
That  the  sweet  poet  spake  of? — Had  he  seen 
Our  variegated  woods,  when  first  the  frost 
Turns  into  beauty  all  October's  charms — 
When  the  dread  fever  quits  us — when  the  storms 
Of  the  wild  equinox,  with  all  its  wet, 
Has  left  the  land,  as  the  first  Deluge  left  it, 
With  a  bright  bow  of  many  colours  hung 
Upon  the  forest-tops — he  had  not  sighed. 

The  moon  stays  longest  for  the  hunter  now : 
The  trees  cast  down  their  fruitage,  and  the  blithe 
And  busy  squirrel  hoards  his  winter  store  : 
While  man  enjoys  the  breeze  that  sweeps  along 
The  bright,  blue  sky  above  him,  and  that  bends 
Magnificently  all  the  forest's  pride, 
Or  whispers  through  the  evergreens,  and  asks, 
"  What  is  there  saddening  in  the  autumn  leaves  ?" 


BRAIN A  XI).  167 

THE    SEA-BIRD'S    SONG. 

the  deep  is  the  mariner's  danger, 
On  the  deep  is  the  mariner's  death — 
Who,  to  fear  of  the  tempest  a  stranger, 
Sees  the  last  bubble  burst  of  his  breath  ? 
'Tis  the  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 

Lone  looker  on  despair — 
The  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 
The  only  witness  there. 

Who  watches  their  course,  who  so  mildly 

Careen  to  the  kiss  of  the  breeze  ! 
Who  lists  to  their  shrieks,  who  so  wildly 

Are  clasped  in  the  arms  of  the  seas  ? 
'Tis  the  sea-bird,  &c. 

Who  hovers  on  high  o'er  the  lover, 
And  her  who  has  clung  to  his  neck  ? 

Whose  wing  is  the  wing  that  can  cover, 
With  its  shadow,  the  foundering  wreck  ? 
'Tis  the  sea-bird,  etc. 

My  eye  in  the  light  of  the  billow, 

My  wing  on  the  wake  of  the  wave, 
I  shall  take  to  my  breast,  for  a  pillow, 

The  shroud  of  the  fair  and  the  brave. 
I'm  a  sea-bird,  &c. 

My  foot  on  the  iceberg  has  lighted, 

When  hoarse  the  wild  winds  veer  about ; 

My  eye,  when  the  bark  is  benighted, 
Sees  the  lamp  of  the  lighthouse  go  out. 
I'm  the  sea-bird,  &c. 


168  GOLDEN   LEAVE V. 

lamea  illallis  (Kastburu. 

TO     PNEUMA. 

'  I  "^EMPESTS  their  furious  course  may  sweep 

Swiftly  o'er  the  troubled  deep — 
Darkness  may  lend  her  gloomy  aid, 
And  wrap  the  groaning  world  in  shade ; 
But  man  can  show  a  darker  hour, 
And  bend  beneath  a  stronger  power ; 
There  is  a  tempest  of  the  SOUL, 
A  gloom  where  wilder  billows  roll ! 

The  howling  wilderness  may  spread 
Its  pathless  deserts,  parched  and  dread, 
Where  not  a  blade  of  herbage  blooms, 
Nor  yields  the  breeze  its  soft  perfumes ; 
Where  silence,  death,  and  horror  reign, 
Unchecked,  across  the  wide  domain ; — 
There  is  a  desert  of  the  MIND 
More  hopeless,  dreary,  undefined  ! 

There  Sorrow,  moody  Discontent, 
And  gnawing  Care,  are  wildly  blent ; 
There  Horror  hangs  her  darkest  clouds, 
And  the  whole  scene  in  gloom  enshrouds ; 
A  sickly  ray  is  cast  around, 
Where  naught  but  dreariness  is  found ; 
A  feeling  that  may  not  be  told — 
Dark,  rending,  lonely,  drear,  and  cold. 

The  wildest  ills  that  darken  life 
Are  rapture  to  the  bosom's  strife ; 


EASTBURN.  169 

The  tempest,  in  its  blackest  form, 

Is  beauty  to  the  bosom's  storm ; 

The  ocean,  lashed  to  fury  loud, 

Its  high  wave  mingling  with  the  cloud, 

Is  peaceful,  sweet  serenity 

To  Passion's  dark  and  boundless  sea. 

There  sleeps  no  calm,  there  smiles  no  rest, 
When  storms  are  warring  in  the  breast ; 
There  is  no  moment  of  repose 
In  bosoms  lashed  by  hidden  woes ; 
The  scorpion-sting  the  fury  rears, 
And  every  trembling  fibre  tears ; 
The  vulture  preys  with  bloody  beak 
Upon  the  heart  that  can  but  break  ! 


THE     RESTORATION     OF     ISRAEL. 

TVTOUNTAINS  of  Israel!  rear  on  high 

^  Your  summits,  crowned  with  verdure  new, 

And  spread  your  branches  to  the  sky, 

Refulgent  with  celestial  dew. 
O'er  Jordan's  stream,  of  gentle  flow, 

And  Judah's  peaceful  valleys,  smile, 
And  far  reflect  the  lovely  glow 

Where  Ocean's  waves  incessant  toil. 

See  where  the  scattered  tribes  return  ! 

Their  slavery  is  burst  at  length, 
And  purer  flames  to  JESUS  burn, 

And  Zion  girds  on  her  new  strength  : 


17°  G  OLDEN  LEAVE  8. 

New  cities  bloom  along  the  plain, 

New  temples  to  JEHOVAH  rise, 
The  kindling  voice  of  praise  again 

Pours  its  sweet  anthems  to  the  skies. 

The  fruitful  fields  again  are  blest, 

And  yellow  harvests  smile  around ; 
Sweet  scenes  of  heavenly  joy  and  rest, 

Where  peace  and  innocence  are  found. 
The  bloody  sacrifice  no  more 

Shall  smoke  upon  the  altars  high, — 
But  ardent  hearts,  from  hill  to  shore, 

Send  grateful  incense  to  the  sky  ! 

The  jubilee  of  man  is  near, 

When  earth,  as  heaven,  shall  own  His  reign ; 
He  comes  to  wipe  the  mourner's  tear, 

And  cleanse  the  heart  from  sin  and  pain. 
Praise  Him,  ye  tribes  of  Israel,  praise 

The  King  that  ransomed  you  from  woe : 
Nations,  the  hymn  of  triumph  raise, 

And  bid  the  song  of  rapture  flow  ! 


Hobert  €.  Sanba. 

WEEHAWKEN. 

1 /VE  o'er  our  path  is  stealing  fast; 
^~~*  Yon  quivering  splendours  are  the  last 
The  sun  will  fling,  to  tremble  o'er 
The  waves  that  kiss  the  opposing  shore ; 


SANDS.  171 

His  latest  glories  fringe  the  height 
Behind  us  with  their  golden  light. 

The  mountain's  mirrored  outline  fades 
Amid  the  fast-extending  shades ; 
Its  shaggy  bulk,  in  sterner  pride, 
Towers,  as  the  gloom  steals  o'er  the  tide ; 
For  the  great  stream  a  bulwark  meet 
That  leaves  its  rock-encumbered  feet. 

River  and  mountain  !  though  to  song 
Not  yet,  perchance,  your  names  belong, 
Those  who  have  loved  your  evening  hues 
Will  ask  not  the  recording  Muse 
What  antique  tales  she  can  relate, 
Your  banks  and  steeps  to  consecrate. 

Yet,  should  the  stranger  ask  what  lore 
Of  by-gone  days  this  winding  shore, 
Yon  cliffs  and  fir-clad  steeps  could  tell, 
If  vocal  made  by  Fancy's  spell, — 
The  varying  legend  might  rehearse 
Fit  themes  for  high,  romantic  verse. 

O'er  yon  rough  heights  and  moss-clad  sod, 
Oft  hath  the  stalworth  warrior  trod ; 
Or  peered,  with  hunter's  gaze,  to  mark 
The  progress  of  the  glancing  bark. 
Spoils,  strangely  won  on  distant  waves, 
Have  lurked  in  yon  obstructed  caves. 

When  the  great  strife  for  Freedom  rose, 
Here  scouted  oft  her  friends  and  foes, 
Alternate,  through  the  changeful  war, 
And  beacon-fires  flashed  bright  and  far ; 


G  OLDEN   LEAVES. 

And  here,  when  Freedom's  strife  was  won, 
Fell,  in  sad  feud,  her  favoured  son ; — 

Her  son — the  second  of  the  band, 
The  Romans  of  the  rescued  land. 
Where  round  yon  capes  the  banks  ascend, 
Long  shall  the  pilgrim's  footsteps  bend ; 
There,  mirthful  hearts  shall  pause  to  sigh, 
There,  tears  shall  dim  the  patriot's  eye. 

There  last  he  stood.      Before  his  sight 
Flowed  the  fair  river,  free  and  bright ; 
The  rising  mart,  and  isles,  and  bay, 
Before  him  in  their  glory  lay — 
Scenes  of  his  love  and  of  his  fame — 
The  instant  ere  the  death-shot  came. 


THE     GREEN     ISLE     OF     LOVERS. 


say  that,  afar  in  the  land  of  the  West, 
Where  the  bright  golden  sun  sinks  in  glory  to  rest, 
Mid  fens  where  the  hunter  ne'er  ventured  to  tread, 
A  fair  lake,  unruffled  and  sparkling,  is  spread  ; 
Where,  lost  in  his  course,  the  rapt  Indian  discovers, 
In  distance  seen  dimly,  the  green  Isle  of  Lovers. 

There  verdure  fades  never;  immortal  in  bloom, 
Soft  waves  the  magnolia  its  groves  of  perfume  ; 
And  low  bends  the  branch  with  rich  fruitage  depressed, 
All  glowing  like  gems  in  the  crowns  of  the  East  ; 
There  the  bright  eye  of  Nature  in  mild  glory  hovers  : 
'Tis  the  land  of  the  sunbeam  —  the  green  Isle  of  Lovers  ! 


PEA  SOD  Y.   f  173 

Sweet  strains  wildly  float  on  the  breezes  that  kiss 
The  calm-flowing  lake  round  that  region  of  bliss, 
Where,  wreathing  their  garlands  of  amaranth,  fair  choirs 
Glad  measures  still  weave  to  the  sound  that  inspires 
The  dance  and  the  revel,  mid  forests  that  cover 
On  high  with  their  shade  the  green  Isle  of  the  Lover. 

But  fierce  as  the  snake,  with  his  eyeballs  of  fire, 
When  his  scales  are  all  brilliant  and  glowing  with  ire, 
Are  the  warriors  to  all,  save  the  maids  of  their  isle, 
Whose  law  is  their  will,  and  whose  life  is  their  smile ; 
From  beauty  there  valour  and  strength  are  not  rovers, 
And  peace  reigns  supreme  in  the  green  Isle  of  Lovers. 

And  he  who  has  sought  to  set  foot  on  its  shore, 

In  mazes  perplexed,  has  beheld  it  no  more ; 

It  fleets  on  the  vision,  deluding  the  view — 

Its  banks  still  retire  as  the  hunters  pursue : 

Oh !  who  in  this  vain  world  of  woe  shall  discover 

The  home  undisturbed,  the  green  Isle  of  the  Lover  ? 


tDtlliam  B.  OD. 


HYMN    OF    NATURE. 

OD  of  the  earth's  extended  plains  ! 

The  dark,  green  fields  contented  lie  ; 
The  mountains  rise  like  holy  towers, 

Where  man  might  commune  with  the  sky 
The  tall  cliff  challenges  the  storm 
That  lowers  upon  the  vale  below, 
9 


174  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Where  shaded  fountains  send  their  streams, 
With  joyous  music  in  their  flow. 

GOD  of  the  dark  and  heavy  deep  ! 

The  waves  lie  sleeping  on  the  sands, 
Till  the  fierce  trumpet  of  the  storm 

Hath  summoned  up  their  thundering  bands ; 
Then  the  white  sails  are  dashed  like  foam, 

Or  hurry,  trembling,  o'er  the  seas, 
Till,  calmed  by  Thee,  the  sinking  Gale 

Serenely  breathes,  "  Depart  in  peace." 

GOD  of  the  forest's  solemn  shade  ! 

The  grandeur  of  the  lonely  tree, 
That  wrestles  singly  with  the  gale, 

Lifts  up  admiring  eyes  to  Thee ; 
But  more  majestic  far  they  stand, 

When,  side  by  side,  their  ranks  they  form, 
To  wave  on  high  their  plumes  of  green, 

And  fight  their  battles  with  the  storm. 

GOD  of  the  light  and  viewless  air ! 

Where  summer  breezes  sweetly  flow, 
Or,  gathering  in  their  angry  might/ 

The  fierce  and  wintry  tempests  blow ; 
All — from  the  Evening's  plaintive  sigh, 

That  hardly  lifts  the  drooping  flower, 
To  the  wild  Whirlwind's  midnight  cry, 

Breathe  forth  the  language  of  thy  power. 

GOD  of  the  fair  and  open  sky  ! 

How  gloriously  above  us  springs 
The  tented  dome,  of  heavenly  blue, 

Suspended  on  the  rainbow's  rings ! 


FAIRFIELD.  175 

Each  brilliant  star,  that  sparkles  through, 
Each  gilded  cloud,  that  wanders  free 

In  evening's  purple  radiance,  gives 
The  beauty  of  its  praise  to  Thee. 

GOD  of  the  rolling  orbs  above ! 

Thy  name  is  written  clearly  bright 
In  the  warm  day's  unvarying  blaze, 

Or  evening's  golden  shower  of  light. 
For  every  fire  that  fronts  the  sun, 

And  every  spark  that  walks  alone 
Around  the  utmost  verge  of  heaven, 

Were  kindled  at  thy  burning  throne. 

GOD  of  the  world  !  the  hour  must  come, 

And  Nature's  self  to  dust  return ; 
Her  crumbling  altars  must  decay, 

Her  incense-fires  shall  cease  to  burn ; 
But  still  her  grand  and  lovely  scenes 

Have  made  man's  warmest  praises  flow ; 
For  hearts  grow  holier  as  they  trace 

The  beauty  of  the  world  below. 


Sumner  Cincoln  Jmrfielb. 

AN     EVENING     SONG     OF     PIEDMONT. 

A  VE  MARIA !   'tis  the  midnight  hour, 
*^^  The  starlight  wedding  of  the  earth  and  heaven, 
When  music  breathes  its  perfume  from  the  flower, 
And  high  revealings  to  the  heart  are  given ; 


176  G  OLD  EN  LEAVES. 

Soft  o'er  the  meadows  steals  the  dewy  air — 

Like  dreams  of  bliss ;  the  deep-blue  ether  glows, 

And  the  stream  murmurs  round  its  islets  fair 
The  tender  night-song  of  a  charmed  repose. 

Ave  MARIA  !   'tis  the  hour  of  love, 

The  kiss  of  rapture,  and  the  linked  embrace, 
The  hallowed  converse  in  the  dim,  still  grove, 

The  elysium  of  a  heart-revealing  face, 
When  all  is  beautiful — for  we  are  blest ; 

When  all  is  lovely — for  we  are  beloved; 
When  all  is  silent — for  our  passions  rest ; 

When  all  is  faithful — for  our  hopes  are  proved. 

Ave  MARIA  !   'tis  the  hour  of  prayer, 

Of  hushed  communion  with  ourselves  and  Heaven, 
When  our  waked  hearts  their  inmost  thoughts  declare, 

High,  pure,  far-searching,  like  the  light  of  even ; 
When  hope  becomes  fruition,  and  we  feel 

The  holy  earnest  of  eternal  peace, 
That  bids  our  pride  before  the  Omniscient  kneel, 

That  bids  our  wild  and  warring  passions  cease. 

Ave  MARIA  !  soft  the  vesper  hymn 

Floats  through  the  cloisters  of  yon  holy  pile, 
And,  mid  the  stillness  of  the  night-watch  dim, 

Attendant  spirits  seem  to  hear  and  smile ! 
Hark  !  hath  it  ceased  ?     The  vestal  seeks  her  cell, 

And  reads  her  heart — a  melancholy  tale  ! 
A  song  of  happier  years,  whose  echoes  swell 

O'er  her  lost  love,  like  pale  Bereavement's  wail. 

Ave  MARIA  !   let  our  prayers  ascend 
From  them  whose  holy  offices  afford 


MELLEN.  177 

No  joy  in  heaven — on  earth  without  a  friend — 
That  true,  though  faded  image  of  the  LORD  ! 

For  them  in  vain  the  face  of  Nature  glows, 
For  them  in  vain  the  sun  in  glory  burns ; 

The  hollow  breast  consumes  in  fiery  woes, 

And  meets  despair  and  death  where'er  it  turns. 

Ave  MARIA  !  in  the  deep  pine-wood, 

On  the  clear  stream,  and  o'er  the  azure  sky, 
Bland  Midnight  smiles,  and  starry  Solitude 

Breathes  hope  in  every  breeze  that  wanders  by. 
Ave  MARIA  !  may  our  last  hour  come 

As  bright,  as  pure,  as  gentle,  Heaven  !  as  this ! 
Let  Faith  attend  us  smiling  to  the  tomb, 

And  Life  and  Death  are  both  the  heirs  of  bliss ! 


©vcnwlle  flldlen. 

ON    SEEING    AN    EAGLE    PASS    NEAR    ME    IN    AUTUMN 
TWILIGHT. 

AIL  on,  thou  lone,  imperial  bird, 

Of  quenchless  eye  and  tireless  wing ; 
How  is  thy  distant  coming  heard, 

As  the  night's  breezes  round  thee  ring ! 
Thy  course  was  'gainst  the  burning  sun 

In  his  extremest  glory.      How  ! 
Is  thy  unequalled  daring  done, 

Thou  stoop'st  to  earth  so  lowly  now  ? 

Or  hast  thou  left  thy  rocking  dome, 
Thy  roaring  crag,  thy  lightning  pine, 


178  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

To  find  some  secret,  meaner  home, 
Less  stormy  and  unsafe  than  thine  ? 

Else  why  thy  dusky  pinions  bend 
So  closely  to  this  shadowy  world, 

And  round  thy  searching  glances  send, 
As  wishing  thy  broad  pens  were  furled  ? 

Yet  lonely  is  thy  shattered  nest, 

Thy  eyry  desolate,  though  high ; 
And  lonely  thou,  alike  at  rest, 

Or  soaring  in  the  upper  sky. 
The  golden  light  that  bathes  thy  plumes 

On  thine  interminable  flight, 
Falls  cheerless  on  earth's  desert  tombs, 

And  makes  the  North's  ice-mountains  bright. 

So  come  the  eagle-hearted  down, 

So  come  the  high  and  proud  to  earth, 
When  life's  night-gathering  tempests  frown 

Over  their  glory  and  their  mirth : 
So  quails  the  mind's  undying  eye, 

That  bore,  unveiled,  Fame's  noontide  sun ; 
So  man  seeks  solitude,  to  die, 

His  high  place  left,  his  triumphs  done. 

So,  round  the  residence  of  Power, 

A  cold  and  joyless  lustre  shines, 
And  on  life's  pinnacles  will  lower 

Clouds,  dark  as  bathe  the  eagle's  pines. 
But,  oh,  the  mellow  light  that  pours 

From  GOD'S  pure  throne — the  light  that  saves ! 
It  warms  the  spirit  as  it  soars, 

And  sheds  deep  radiance  round  our  graves. 


M  ELL  EN.  179 


THE     TRUE     GLORY     OF     AMERICA. 

TTALIA'S  vales  and  fountains, 
•*•      Though  beautiful  ye  be, 
I  love  my  soaring  mountains 

And  forests  more  than  ye ; 
And  though  a  dreamy  greatness  rise 

From  out  your  cloudy  years, 
Like  hills  on  distant  stormy  skies, 

Seen  dim  through  Nature's  tears, 
Still,  tell  me  not  of  years  of  old, 

Or  ancient  heart  and  clime ; 
Ours  is  the  land  and  age  of  gold, 

And  ours  the  hallowed  time  ! 

The  jewelled  crown  and  sceptre 

Of  Greece  have  passed  away ; 
And  none,  of  all  who  wept  her, 

Could  bid  her  splendour  stay. 
The  world  has  shaken  with  the  tread 

Of  iron-sandalled  Crime — 
And,  lo  !  o'ershadowing  all  the  dead, 

The  conqueror  stalks  sublime  ! 
Then  ask  I  not  for  crown  and  plume 

To  nod  above  my  land ; 
The  victor's  footsteps  point  to  doom, 

Graves  open  round  his  hand  ! 

Rome  !  with  thy  pillared  palaces, 

And  sculptured  heroes  all, 
Snatched,  in  their  warm,  triumphal  days, 

To  Art's  high  festival ; 


l8o  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

Rome  !   with  thy  giant  sons  of  power, 

Whose  pathway  was  on  thrones, 
Who  built  their  kingdoms  of  an  hour 

On  yet  unburied  bones, — 
I  would  not  have  my  land  like  thee, 

So  lofty — yet  so  cold  ! 
Be  hers  a  lowlier  majesty, 

In  yet  a  nobler  mould. 

Thy  marbles — works  of  wonder  ! 

In  thy  victorious  days, 
Whose  lips  did  seem  to  sunder 

Before  the  astonished  gaze ; 
When  statue  glared  on  statue  there, 

The  living  on  the  dead, — 
And  men  as  silent  pilgrims  were 

Before  some  sainted  head  ! 
Oh,  not  for  faultless  marbles  yet 

Would  I  the  light  forego 
That  beams  when  other  lights  have  set, 

And  Art  herself  lies  low  ! 

Oh,  ours  a  holier  hope  shall  be 

Than  consecrated  bust, 
Some  loftier  mean  of  memory 

To  snatch  us  from  the  dust. 
And  ours  a  sterner  art  than  this, 

Shall  fix  our  image  here, — 
The  spirit's  mould  of  loveliness — 

A  nobler  BELVIDERE  ! 

Then  let  them  bind  with  bloomless  flowers 
The  busts  and  urns  of  old, — 


MARGARET  FULLER.  181 

A  fairer  heritage  be  ours, 

A  sacrifice  less  cold  ! 
Give  honour  to  the  great  and  good, 

And  wreathe  the  living  brow, 
Kindling  with  Virtue's  mantling  blood, 

And  pay  the  tribute  now  ! 

So,  when  the  good  and  great  go  down, 

Their  statues  shall  arise, 
To  crowd  those  temples  of  our  own, 

Our  fadeless  memories ! 
And  when  the  sculptured  marble  falls, 

And  Art  goes  in  to  die, 
Our  forms  shall  live  in  holier  halls, 

The  Pantheon  of  the  sky  I 


0.  fttavjaret  -fuller. 

GANYMEDE     TO     HIS     EAGLE.* 

TPON  the  rocky  mountain  stood  the  boy, 
^"^      A  goblet  of  pure  water  in  his  hand ; 
His  face  and  form  spoke  him  one  made  for  joy, 

A  willing  servant  to  sweet  Love's  command ; 
But  a  strange  pain  was  written  on  his  brow, 
And  thrilled  throughout  his  silver  accents  now : 

"  My  bird,"  he  cries,  "  my  destined  brother-friend, 
Oh,  whither  fleets  co-day  thy  wayward  flight  ? 


*  On  seeing  T}IORVVALDSEN'S  statue  of  Ganymede. 


182  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

"  Hast  thou  forgotten  that  I  here  attend, 
From  the  full  noon  until  this  sad  twilight  ? 

A  hundred  times,  at  least,  from  the  clear  spring, 
Since  the  full  noon  o'er  hill  and  valley  glowed, 

I've  filled  the  vase  which  our  Olympian  king 
Upon  my  care  for  thy  sole  use  bestowed ; 

That,  at  the  moment  when  thou  shouldst  descend, 

A  pure  refreshment  might  thy  thirst  attend. 

"  Hast  thou  forgotten  Earth — forgotten  me, 

Thy  fellow-bondsman  in  a  royal  cause, 
Who,  from  the  sadness  of  infinity, 

Only  with  thee  can  know  that  peaceful  pause 
In  which  we  catch  the  flowing  strain  of  love 
Which  binds  our  dim  fates  to  the  throne  of  JOVE. 

"  Before  I  saw  thee  I  was  like  the  May, 

Longing  for  Summer  that  must  mar  its  bloom, 
Or  like  the  Morning  Star  that  calls  the  Day, 

Whose  glories  to  its  promise  are  the  tomb ; 
And  as  the  eager  fountain  rises  higher, 

To  throw  itself  more  strongly  back  to  earth, 
Still,  as  more  sweet  and  full  rose  my  desire, 

More  fondly  it  reverted  to  its  birth ; 
For,  what  the  rose-bud  seeks  tells  not  the  rose — 
The  meaning  foretold  by  the  boy  the  man  cannot  disclose. 

"  I  was  all  Spring,  for  in  my  being  dwelt 
Eternal  youth,  where  flowers  are  the  fruit ; 

Full  feeling  was  the  thought  of  what  was  felt — 
Its  music  was  the  meaning  of  the  lute : 

But  Heaven  and  Earth  such  life  will  still  deny, 

For  Earth,  divorced  from  Heaven,  still  asks  the  question, 
'Why?' 


MARGARET  FULLER.  183 

"  Upon  the  highest  mountains  my  young  feet 

Ached,  that  no  pinions  from  their  lightness  grew, 
My  starlike  eyes  the  stars  would  fondly  greet, 

Yet  win  no  greeting  from  the  circling  blue ; 
Fair,  self-subsistent,  each  in  its  own  sphere, 

They  had  no  care  that  there  was  none  for  me : 
Alike  to  them  that  I  was  far  or  near, 

Alike  to  them,  time  and  eternity. 

"  But,  from  the  violet  of  lower  air, 

Sometimes  an  answer  to  my  wishing  came, 
Those  lightning-births  my  nature  seemed  to  share. 

They  told  the  secrets  of  its  fiery  frame — 
The  sudden  messengers  of  Hate  and  Love, 
The  thunderbolts  that  arm  the  hand  of  JOVE, 
And  strike  sometimes  the  sacred  spire,  and  strike  the  sacred 
grove. 

"  Come  in  a  moment,  in  a  moment  gone, 
They  answered  me,  then  left  me  still  more  lone ; 
They  told  me  that  the  thought  which  ruled  the  world 
As  yet  no  sail  upon  its  course  had  furled, 
That  the  creation  was  but  just  begun, 
New  leaves  still  leaving  from  the  primal  one, 
But  spoke  not  of  the  goal  to  which  my  rapid  wheels  would 
run. 

"  Still,  still  my  eyes,  though  tearfully,  I  strained 
To  the  far  future  which  my  heart  contained, 
And  no  dull  doubt  my  proper  hope  profaned. 
At  last,  oh  bliss !  thy  living  form  I  spied, 

Then  a  mere  speck  upon  a  distant  sky ; 
Yet  my  keen  glance  discerned  its  noble  pride, 

And  the  full  answer  of  that  sun-filled  eye : 


184  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

I  knew  it  was  the  wing  that  must  upbear 
My  earthlier  form  into  the  realms  of  air. 

"  Thou  knowest  how  we  gained  that  beauteous  height, 
Where  dwells  the  monarch  of  the  sons  of  light ; 
Thou  knowest  he  declared  us  two  to  be 
The  chosen  servants  of  his  ministry — 
Thou  as  his  messenger,  a  sacred  sign 
Of  conquest,  or  with  omen  more  benign, 
To  give  its  due  weight  to  the  righteous  cause, 
To  express  the  verdict  of  Olympian  laws. 

"  And  I  to  wait  upon  the  lonely  Spring, 

Which  slakes  the  thirst  of  bards  to  whom  'tis  given 

The  destined  dues  of  hopes  divine  to  sing, 

And  weave  the  needed  chain  to  bind  to  heaven : 

Only  from  such  could  be  obtained  a  draught 

For  him  who  in  his  early  home  from  JOVE'S  own  cup  has 
quaffed. 

"  To  wait,  to  wait,  but  not  to  wait  too  long, 

Till  heavy  grows  the  burden  of  a  song ; 

O  bird  !   too  long  hast  thou  been  gone  to-day, 

My  feet  are  weary  of  their  frequent  way, 

The  spell  that  opes  the  Spring  my  tongue  no  more  can 

say. 

If  soon  thou  com'st  not,  night  will  fall  around, 
My  head  with  a  sad  slumber  will  be  bound, 
And  the  pure  draught  be  spilt  upon  the  ground. 

"  Remember  that  I  am  not  yet  divine ; 
Long  years  of  service  to  the  fatal  Nine 
Are  yet  to  make  a  Delphian  vigour  mine. 


MRS.    JUDSON.  185 

Oh,  make  them  not  too  hard,  thou  bird  of  JOVE  ! 
Answer  the  stripling's  hope,  confirm  his  love ; 
Receive  the  service  in  which  he  delights, 
And  bear  him  often  to  the  serene  heights, 
Where  hands  that  were  so  prompt  in  serving  thee 
Shall  be  allowed  the  highest  ministry, 
And  Rapture  live  with  bright  Fidelity." 


THE      WEAVER. 

A     WEAVER  sat  by  the  side  of  his  loom, 

A-flinging  his  shuttle  fast ; 

And  a  thread  that  would  wear  till  the  hour  of  doom 
Was  added  at  every  cast. 

His  warp  had  been  by  the  angels  spun, 

And  his  weft  was  bright  and  new, 
Like  threads  which  the  morning  unbraids  from  the  sun, 

All  jewelled  over  with  dew. 

And  fresh-lipped,  bright-eyed,  beautiful  flowers 

In  the  rich,  soft  web  were  bedded ; 
And  blithe  to  the  weaver  sped  onward  the  hours : 

Not  yet  were  Time's  feet  leaded  ! 

But  something  there  came  slow  stealing  by, 

And  a  shade  on  the  fabric  fell ; 
And  I  saw  that  the  shuttle  less  blithely  did  fly — 

For  Thought  hath  a  wearisome  spell ! 


186  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

And  a  thread  that  next  o'er  the  warp  was  lain, 

Was  of  melancholy  gray ; 
And  anon  I  marked  there  a  tear-drop's  stain, 

Where  the  flowers  had  fallen  away. 

But  still  the  weaver  kept  weaving  on, 

Though  the  fabric  all  was  gray ; 
And  the  flowers,  and  the  buds,  and  the  leaves,  were  gone, 

And  the  gold  threads  cankered  lay. 

And  dark — and  still  darker — and  darker  grew 

Each  newly-woven  thread ; 
And  some  there  were  of  a  death-mocking  hue, 

And  some  of  a  bloody  red. 

And  things  all  strange  were  woven  in — 

Sighs,  and  down-crushed  hopes,  and  fears ; 

And  the  web  was  broken,  and  poor,  and  thin, 
And  it  dripped  with  living  tears. 

And  the  weaver  fain  would  have  flung  it  aside, 

But  he  knew  it  would  be  a  sin ; 
So  in  light  and  in  gloom  the  shuttle  he  plied, 

A-weaving  these  life-cords  in. 

And  as  he  wove,  and,  weeping,  still  wove, 

A  tempter  stole  him  nigh ; 
And,  with  glozing  words,  he  to  win  him  strove — 

But  the  weaver  turned  his  eye. 

He  upward  turned  his  eye  to  heaven, 

And  still  wove  on — on — on  ! 
Till  the  last,  last  cord  from  his  heart  was  riven, 

And  the  tissue  strange  was  done. 


MRS.    JUDSQN.  187 

Then  he  threw  it  about  his  shoulders  bowed, 

And  about  his  grizzled  head ; 
And,  gathering  close  the  folds  of  his  shroud, 

Laid  him  down  among  the  dead. 

And  I  after  saw,  in  a  robe  of  light, 

The  weaver  in  the  sky  : 
The  angels'  wings  were  not  more  bright, 

And  the  stars  grew  pale  it  nigh. 

And  I  saw,  mid  the  folds,  all  the  iris-hued  flowers 
That  beneath  his  touch  had  sprung ; 

More  beautiful  far  than  these  stray  ones  of  ours, 
Which  the  angels  have  to  us  flung. 

And  wherever  a  tear  had  fallen  down, 

Gleamed  out  a  diamond  rare ; 
And  jewels  befitting  a  monarch's  crown 

Were  the  footprints  left  by  Care. 

And  wherever  had  swept  the  breath  of  a  sigh, 

Was  left  a  rich  perfume ; 
And  with  light  from  the  fountain  of  bliss  in  the  sky 

Shone  the  labour  of  Sorrow  and  Gloom. 

And  then  I  prayed,  "When  my  last  work  is  done, 

And  the  silver  life-cord  riven, 
Be  the  stain  of  Sorrow  the  deepest  one 

That  I  bear  with  me  to  heaven  !" 


188  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 


Hufu0 


THE     SPIRIT     OF     BEAUTY. 

'  I  ^HE  Spirit  of  Beauty  unfurls  her  light, 

And  wheels  her  course  in  a  joyous  flight  ; 
I  know  her  track  through  the  balmy  air, 
By  the  blossoms  that  cluster  and  whiten  there  ; 
She  leaves  the  tops  of  the  mountains  green, 
And  gems  the  valley  with  crystal  sheen. 

At  morn,  I  know  where  she  rested  at  night, 
For  the  roses  are  gushing  with  dewy  delight  ; 
Then  she  mounts  again,  and  round  her  flings 
A  shower  of  light  from  her  crimson  wings  ; 
Till  the  spirit  is  drunk  with  the  music  on  high, 
That  silently  fills  it  with  ecstasy. 

At  noon  she  hies  to  a  cool  retreat, 

Where  bowering  elms  over  waters  meet  ; 

She  dimples  the  wave  where  the  green  leaves  dip, 

As  it  smilingly  curls  like  a  maiden's  lip, 

When  her  tremulous  bosom  would  hide,  in  vain, 

From  her  lover,  the  hope  that  she  loves  again. 

At.  eve  she  hangs  o'er  the  western  sky 
Dark  clouds  for  a  glorious  canopy, 
And  round  the  skirts  of  their  deepened  fold 
She  paints  a  border  of  purple  and  gold, 
Where  the  lingering  sunbeams  love  to  stay, 
When  their  god  in  his  glory  has  passed  away. 


DA  WES.  189 

She  hovers  around  us  at  twilight  hour, 

When  her  presence  is  felt  with  the  deepest  power ; 

She  silvers  the  landscape,  and  crowds  the  stream 

With  shadows  that  flit  like  a  fairy  dream ; 

Then  wheeling  her  flight  through  the  gladdened  air, 

The  Spirit  of  Beauty  is  everywhere. 


SUNRISE,     FROM     MOUNT     WASHINGTON. 

'  I  *HE  laughing  Hours  have  chased  away  the  Night, 

Plucking  the  stars  out  from  her  diadem : 
And  now  the  blue-eyed  Morn,  with  modest  grace, 
Looks  through  her  half- drawn  curtains  in  the  east, 
Blushing  in  smiles  and  glad  as  infancy. 
And  see,  the  foolish  Moon,  but  now  so  vain 
Of  borrowed  beauty,  how  she  yields  her  charms, 
And,  pale  with  envy,  steals  herself  away  ! 
The  clouds  have  put  their  gorgeous  livery  on, 
Attendant  on  the  day — the  mountain-tops 
Have  lit  their  beacons,  and  the  vales  below 
Send  up  a  welcoming ; — no  song  of  birds 
Warbling,  to  charm  the  air  with  melody, 
Floats  on  the  frosty  breeze,  yet  Nature  hath 
The  very  soul  of  music  in  her  looks ! 
The  sunshine  and  the  shade  of  poetry. 

I  stand  upon  thy  lofty  pinnacle, 
Temple  of  Nature  !   and  look  down  with  awe 
On  the  wide  world  beneath  me,  dimly  seen ; 
Around  me  crowd  the  giant  sons  of  earth, 
Fixed  on  their  old  foundations,  unsubdued ; 


19°  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Firm  as  when  first  rebellion  bade  them  rise 
Unrifted  to  the  Thunderer — now  they  seem 
A  family  of  mountains,  clustering  round 
Their  hoary  patriarch,  emulously  watching 
To  meet  the  partial  glances  of  the  day. 
Far  in  the  glowing  east  the  flickering  light, 
Mellowed  by  distance,  with  the  blue  sky  blending, 
Questions  the  eye  with  ever-varying  forms. 

The  Sun  comes  up !  away  the  shadows  fling 
From  the  broad  hills — and,  hurrying  to  the  west, 
Sport  in  the  sunshine,  till  they  die  away. 
The  many  beauteous  mountain-streams  leap  down, 
Out-welling  from^the  clouds,  and  sparkling  light 
Dances  along  with  their  perennial  flow. 
And  there  is  beauty  in  yon  river's  path, 
The  glad  Connecticut !   I  know  her  well, 
By  the  white  veil  she  mantles  o'er  her  charms  : 
At  times,  she  loiters  by  a  ridge  of  hills, 
Sportfully  hiding — then  again  with  glee 
Out-rushes  from  her  wild-wood  lurking-place. 
Far  as  the  eye  can  bound,  the  ocean-waves, 
And  hills  and  rivers,  mountains,  lakes,  and  woods, 
And  all  that  hold  the  faculty  entranced, 
Bathed  in  a  flood  of  glory,  float  in  air, 
And  sleep  in  the  deep  quietude  of  joy. 

There  is  an  awful  stillness  in  this  place, 
A  Presence,  that  forbids  to  break  the  spell, 
Till  the  heart  pour  its  agony  in  tears. 
But  I  must  drink  the  vision  while  it  lasts ; 
For  even  now  the  curling  vapours  rise, 
Wreathing  their  cloudy  coronals  to  grace 
These  towering  summits — bidding  me  away  : — 


BISHOP   D  OA  NE.  191 

But  often  shall  my  heart  turn  back  again, 
Thou  glorious  eminence  !  and  when  oppressed, 
And  aching  with  the  coldness  of  the  world, 
Find  a  sweet  resting-place  and  home  with  thee. 


Bishop  <S>*0.  ID.  JDocme. 
"WHAT   is   THAT,    MOTHER?" 

44  XTTTHAT  is  that,  Mother  ?"— " The  lark,  my  child  ! 
The  Morn  has  but  just  looked  out,  and  smiled, 
When  he  starts  from  his  humble  grassy  nest, 
And  is  up  and  away,  with  the  dew  on  his  breast, 
And  a  hymn  in  his  heart,  to  yon  pure,  bright  sphere, 
To  warble  it  out  in  his  Maker's  ear. 

Ever,  my  child,  be  thy  morn's  first  lays 
Tuned,  like  the  lark's,  to  thy  Maker's  praise." 

"  What  is  that,  Mother  ?"— "  The  dove,  my  son  ! — 

And  that  low,  sweet  voice,  like  a  widow's  moan, 

Is  flowing  out  from  her  gentle  breast, 

Constant  and  pure,  by  that  lonely  nest, 

As  the  wave  is  poured  from  some  crystal  urn, 

For  her  distant  dear  one's  quick  return. 

Ever,  my  son,  be  thou  like  the  dove — 

In  friendship  as  faithful,  as  constant  in  love." 

"  What  is  that,  Mother  ?" — "  The  eagle,  boy  ! — 
Proudly  careering  his  course  of  joy ; 
Firm,  on  his  own  mountain  vigour  relying, 
Breasting  the  dark  storm,  the  red  bolt  defying, 


192  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

His  wing  on  the  wind,  and  his  eye  on  the  sun, 
He  swerves  not  a  hair,  but  bears  onward,  right  on. 
Boy,  may  the  eagle's  flight  ever  be  thine, 
Onward,  and  upward,  and  true  to  the  line." 

"  What  is  that,  mother  ?" — "  The  swan,  my  love  !- 
He  is  floating  down  from  his  native  grove ; 
No  loved  one  now,  no  nestling  nigh, 
He  is  floating  down,  by  himself  to  die  : 
Death  darkens  his  eye,  and  unplumes  his  wings, 
Yet  his  sweetest  song  is  the  last  he  sings. 

Live  so,  my  love,  that  when  death  shall  come, 
Swan-like  and  sweet,  it  may  waft  thee  home." 


A     CHERUB. 

"  Dear  Sir,  I  am  in  some  little  disorder  by  reason  of  the  death  of 
a  little  child  of  mine,  a  boy  that  lately  made  us  very  glad  5  but  now 
he  rejoices  in  his  little  orbe,  while  we  thinke,  and  sigh,  and  long  to 
be  as  safe  as  he  is." — JEREMY  TAYLOR  TO  EVELYN  (1656.) 

T>  EAUTIFUL  thing  !   with  thine  eye  of  light, 
•^   And  thy  brow  of  cloudless  beauty  bright, 
Gazing  for  aye  on  the  sapphire  throne 
Of  Him  who  dwelleth  in  light  alone — 
Art  thou  hasting  now,  on  that  golden  wing, 
With  the  burning  seraph-choir  to  sing  ? 
Or  stooping  to  earth,  in  thy  gentleness, 
Our  darkling  path  to  cheer  and  bless  ? 

Beautiful  thing !  thou  art  come  in  love, 
With  gentle  gales  from  the  world  above, 
Breathing  of  pureness,  breathing  of  bliss, 
Bearing  our  spirits  away  from  this, 


MRS.    KINNE7.  193 

To  the  better  thoughts,  to  the  brighter  skies, 
Where  heaven's  eternal  sunshine  lies ; 
Winning  our  hearts,  by  a  blessed  guile, 
With  that  infant  look  and  angel  smile. 

Beautiful  thing  !  thou  art  come  in  joy, 

With  the  look  and  the  voice  of  our  darling  boy — 

Him  that  was  torn  from  the  bleeding  hearts 

He  had  twined  about  with  his  infant  arts, 

To  dwell,  from  sin  and  sorrow  far, 

In  the  golden  orb  of  his  little  star : 

There  he  rejoiceth  in  light,  while  we 

Long  to  be  happy  and  safe  as  he. 

Beautiful  thing !  thou  art  come  in  peace, 
Bidding  our  doubts  and  our  fears  to  cease ; 
Wiping  the  tears  which  unbidden  start 
From  that  bitter  fount  in  the  broken  heart ; 
Cheering  us  still  on  our  lonely  way, 
Lest  our  spirits  should  faint,  or  our  feet  should  stray, 
Till,  risen  with  CHRIST,  we  come  to  be, 
Beautiful  thing,  with  our  boy  and  thee. 


iHr0.  #.  <£.  Kinneg. 

TO     POWERS'S     GREEK     SLAVE. 

D  EAUTIFUL  model  of  creative  art ! 

My  spirit  feels  the  reverence  for  thee, 
That  felt  the  ancients  for  a  deity : 
And  did  the  sculptor  shape  thee,  part  by  part, 


194  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Fair,  as  if  whole  from  Genius'  mighty  heart 

Thou'dst  sprung,  like  Venus  from  the  foaming  sea  ? 

Ah !  not  for  show,  in  a  disgraceful  mart, 
Is  that  calm  look  of  conscious  purity ; 

Nor  should  unhallowed  eye  presume  to  steal 

A  sensual  glance,  where  holy  minds  would  kneel, 
As  to  some  goddess  in  her  virgin  youth. 

But  who  could  shame  in  thy  pure  presence  feel, 

Save  those  who,  false  themselves,  must  shrink,  forsooth, 
From  the  mild  lustre  of  ungarnished  truth  ? 


THE     WOODMAN. 

TTE  shoulders  his  axe  for  the  woods,  and  away 
Hies  over  the  fields  at  the  dawn  of  the  day, 
And  merrily  whistles  some  tune  as  he  goes, 
So  heartily  trudging  along  through  the  snows. 

His  dog  scents  his  track,  and  pursues  to  a  mark, 
Now  sending  afar  the  shrill  tones  of  his  bark — 
Then  answering  the  echo  that  comes  back  again 
Through  the  clear  air  of  morn,  over  valley  and  plain. 

And  now  in  the  forest  the  woodman  doth  stand : 
His  eye  marks  the  victims  to  fall  by  his  hand, 
While  true  to  its  aim  is  the  ready  axe  found, 
And  quick  do  its  blows  through  the  woodland  resound. 

The  proud  tree  low  bendeth  its  vigorous  form, 
Whose  freshness  and  strength  have  braved  many  a  storm 
And  the  sturdy  oak  shakes  that  never  trembled  before, 
Though  the  years  of  its  glory  outnumber  threescore. 


MRS.    EAMES.  195 

They  fall  side  by  side — just  as  man  in  his  prime 
Lies  down  with  the  locks  that  are  whitened  by  time  : 
The  trees  which  are  felled  into  ashes  will  burn, 
As  man,  by  Death's  blow,  unto  dust  must  return. 

But  twilight  approaches :  the  woodman  and  dog 
Come  plodding  together  through  snow-drift  and  bog ; 
The  axe,  again  shouldered,  its  day's  work  hath  done ; 
The  woodman  is  hungry — the  dog  wants  his  bone. 

Oh,  home  is  then  sweet,  and  the  evening  repast ! 
But  the  brow  of  the  woodman  with  thought  is  o'ercast : 
He  is  conning  a  truth  to  be  tested  by  all — 
That  man,  like  the  trees  of  the  forest,  must  fall. 


(Hijabetl)  3.  C?ame0. 

CROWNING     OF     PETRARCH. 

A  RRAYED  in  a  monarch's  royal  robes, 
"*•**     With  gold  and  purple  gleaming, 
And  the  broidered  banners  of  the  proud 

Colonna  o'er  him  streaming — 
With  the  gorgeous  pomp  and  pageantry 

Of  the  Anjouite's  court  attended, 
He  came,  that  princely  son  of  song : 

And  the  haughtiest  nobles  rendered 
Adoring  homage  to  the  laureate  bard, 
Whose  sky  was  luminous — with  fame  and  glory  starred. 


196  G  0  LDEN  LEAVE  S. 

And  following  his  triumphal  car, 

Rome's  youthful  sons  came  singing 
His  passion-kindled  melodies, 

With  the  silver  clarion  ringing 
A  prouder  music — harp,  and  lute, 

And  lyre,  all  sweet  sounds  blending — 
And  the  orient  sun-god  on  his  way 

In  dazzling  lustre  bending : 

And  radiant  flowers  their  gem-like  splendour  shed 
O'er  the  proud  march  that  to  the  Eternal  City  led  ! 

In  all  its  ancient  grandeur  was 

That  sceptred  city  dressed, 
And  pealing  notes  and  plaudits  rang 

For  him  its  sovereign  guest : 
The  voice  of  the  Seven  Hills  went  up 

From  kingly  hall  and  bower, 
And  throngs  with  laurel-boughs  poured  forth 

To  grace  that  triumph-hour; 
While  censers  wafted  rich  perfume  around, 
And  the  glowing  air  with  mirth  and  melody  was  crowned. 

On,  onward  to  the  Capitol, 

Italia's  children  crowded — 
Over  three  hundred  triumphs  there 

The  sun  had  sat  unclouded  : 
For  crowned  kings  and  conquerors  haught 

Had  trod  that  path  to  glory, 
And  poets  won  bright  wreaths  and  names 

To  live  in  song  and  story  ! 
But  ne'er  before,  king,  bard,  or  victor  came, 
Winning  such  honours  for  his  name  and  poet-fame. 


MRS.    EAMES.  197 

The  glittering  gates  are  passed,  and  he 

Hath  gained  the  imperial  summit, 
And  deep  rich  strains  of  harmony 

Are  proudly  floating  from  it : 
Incense — sunshine — and  the  swelling 

Shout  of  a  nation's  heart  beneath  him, 
Go  up  to  his  glorious  place  of  pride, 

While  the  kingly  Orsos  wreathe  him  ! 
Well  may  the  bard's  enraptured  heart  beat  high, 
Filled  with  the  exulting  thought  of  his  gift's  bright  victory. 

Crowned  one  of  Rome  !   from  that  lofty  height 

Thou  wear'st  a  conqueror's  seeming — 
Thy  dark,  deep  eye  with  the  radiance 

Of  inspiration  beaming ; 
Thou'st  won  the  living  wreath  for  which 

Thy  young  ambition  panted  ; 
Thy  aspiring  dream  is  realized : 

Hast  thou  one  wish  ungranted  ? 
Kings  bow  to  the  might  of  thy  genius-gifted  mind ; 
Hast  thou  one  unattained  hope,  in  the  deep  heart  enshrined  ? 

O  wreathed  lord  of  the  lyre  of  song ! 

Even  then  thy  heart  was  haunted 
With  one  wild  and  passionate  wish  to  lay 

That  crown,  a  gift  enchanted, 
Low  at  her  feet,  whose  smile  was  more 

Than  glory,  fame,  or  power — 
For  whose  dear  sake  was  won,  and  worn, 

The  glittering  laurel-flower ! 
Oh,  little  worth  thy  bright  renown  to  thee, 
Unshared  by  her,  the  star  of  thy  idolatry  ! 


198  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Thanks  to  thy  lyre  !  she  liveth  yet, 

O  poet,  in  thy  numbers — 
The  peerless  star  of  Avignon, 

Who  shone  o'er  all  thy  slumbers : 
Entire  and  sole  idolatry 

At  LAURA'S  shrine  was  given, 
Yet  was  her  life-lot  severed  far 

From  thine  as  earth  and  heaven  ! 
And  thou,  the  crowned  of  Rome — gifted  and  great- 
Stood  in  thy  glory  still  alone  and  desolate  ! 


©orbon  Brook0. 

GREECE     IN     1832. 

T    AND  of  the  brave  !  where  lie  inurned 
•"•^     The  shrouded  forms  of  mortal  clay, 
In  whom  the  fire  of  valour  burned, 

And  blazed  upon  the  battle's  fray : 
Land,  where  the  gallant  Spartan  few 

Bled  at  Thermopylae  of  yore, 
When  Death  his  purple  garment  threw 

On  Helle's  consecrated  shore  ! 

Land  of  the  Muse  !  within  thy  bowers 
Her  soul-entrancing  echoes  rung, 

While  on  their  course  the  rapid  hours 
Paused  at  the  melody  she  sung — 

Till  every  grove  and  every  hill, 

And  every  stream  that  flowed  along, 


BROOKS.  199 

From  morn  to  night  repeated  still 
The  winning  harmony  of  song. 

Land  of  dead  heroes  !  living  slaves  ! 

Shall  Glory  gild  thy  clime  no  more  ? 
Her  banner  float  above  thy  waves 

Where  proudly  it  hath  swept  before  ? 
Hath  not  Remembrance  then  a  charm 

To  break  the  fetters  and  the  chain, 
To  bid  thy  children  nerve  the  arm, 

And  strike  for  freedom  once  again  ? 

No !  coward  souls,  the  light  which  shone 

On  Leuctra's  war-empurpled  day, 
The  light  which  beamed  on  Marathon 

Hath  lost  its  splendour,  ceased  to  play ; 
And  thou  art  but  a  shadow  now, 

With  helmet  shattered — spear  in  rust — 
Thy  honour  but  a  dream — and  thou 

Despised — degraded  in  the  dust ! 

Where  sleeps  the  spirit,  that  of  old 

Dashed  down  to  earth  the  Persian  plume, 
When  the  loud  chant  of  triumph  told 

How  fatal  was  the  despot's  doom  ? 
The  bold  three  hundred — where  are  they, 

Who  died  on  Battle's  gory  breast  ? 
Tyrants  have  trampled  on  the  clay 

Where  Death  hath  hushed  them  into  rest. 

Yet,  Ida,  yet  upon  thy  hill 

A  glory  shines  of  ages  fled ; 
And  Fame  her  light  is  pouring  still, 

Not  on  the  living,  but  the  dead ! 


200  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

But  'tis  the  dim,  sepulchral  light 
Which  sheds  a  faint  and  feeble  ray, 

As  moonbeams  on  the  brow  of  Night, 
When  tempests  sweep  upon  their  way. 

Greece  !  yet  awake  thee  from  thy  trance- 
Behold,  thy  banner  waves  afar  ; 

Behold,  the  glittering  weapons  glance 
Along  the  gleaming  front  of  war ! 

A  gallant  chief,  of  high  emprise, 
Is  urging  foremost  in  the  field, 

Who  calls  upon  thee  to  arise 
In  might — in  majesty  revealed. 

In  vain,  in  vain  the  hero  calls — 

In  vain  he  sounds  the  trumpet  loud  ! 
His  banner  totters — see  !  it  falls 

In  ruin,  Freedom's  battle-shroud  : 
Thy  children  have  no  soul  to  dare 

Such  deeds  as  glorified  their  sires ; 
Their  valour's  but  a  meteor's  glare, 

Which  gleams  a  moment,  and  expires. 

Lost  land !  where  Genius  made  his  reign, 

And  reared  his  golden  arch  on  high ; 
Where  Science  raised  her  sacred  fane, 

Its  summits  peering  to  the  sky ; 
Upon  thy  clime  the  midnight  deep 

Of  Ignorance  hath  brooded  long, 
And  in  the  tomb,  forgotten,  sleep 

The  sons  of  Science  and  of  Song. 

Thy  sun  hath  set — the  evening  storm 
Hath  passed  in  giant  fury  by, 


MRS.    M.    E.    BROOKS.  201 

To  blast  the  beauty  of  thy  form, 

And  spread  its  pall  upon  the  sky  ! 
Gone  is  thy  glory's  diadem, 

And  Freedom  never  more  shall  cease 
To  pour  her  mournful  requiem 

O'er  blighted,  lost,  degraded  Greece ! 


fttaro  C  Uvook0. 

DREAM     OF     LIFE. 

T  HEARD  the  music  of  the  wave, 

As  it  rippled  to  the  shore, 
And  saw  the  willow-branches  lave, 

As  light  winds  swept  them  o'er — 
The  music  of  the  golden  bow 

That  did  the  torrent  span ; 
But  I  heard  a  sweeter  music  flow 

From  the  youthful  heart  of  man. 

The  wave  rushed  on — the  hues  of  heaven 

Fainter  and  fainter  grew, 
And  deeper  melodies  were  given 

As  swift  the  changes  flew  : 
Then  came  a  shadow  on  my  sight ; 

The  golden  bow  was  dim — 
And  he  that  laughed  beneath  its  light, 

What  was  the  change  to  him  ? 

I  saw  him  not ;  only  a  throng 
Like  the  swell  of  troubled  ocean, 


202  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

Rising,  sinking,  swept  along 

In  the  tempest's  wild  commotion : 

Sleeping,  dreaming,  waking  then, 
Chains  to  link  or  sever — 

Turning  to  the  dream  again, 
Fain  to  clasp  it  ever. 

There  was  a  rush  upon  my  brain, 

A  darkness  on  mine  eye ; 
And  when  I  turned  to  gaze  again, 

The  mingled  forms  were  nigh  : 
In  shadowy  mass  a  mighty  hall 

Rose  on  the  fitful  scene  ; 
Flowers,  music,  gems,  were  flung  o'er  all, 

Not  such  as  once  had  been. 

Then  in  its  mist,  far,  far  away, 

A  phantom  seemed  to  be ; 
The  something  of  a  by-gone  day — 

But  oh,  how  changed  was  he  ! 
He  rose  beside  the  festal  board, 

Where  sat  the  merry  throng ; 
And,  as  the  purple  juice  he  poured, 

Thus  woke  his  wassail  song : 

SONG. 

"  Come  !  while  with  wine  the  goblets  flow, 
For  wine,  they  say,  has  power  to  bless ; 

And  flowers,  too — not  roses,  no  ! 
Bring  poppies,  bring  forgetfulness  ! 

"  A  lethe  for  departed  bliss, 

And  each  too  well  remembered  scene : 

Earth  has  no  sweeter  draught  than  this, 

Which  drowns  the  thought  of  what  has  been. 


HOFFMAN.  203 

"  Here's  to  the  heart's  cold  iciness, 

Which  cannot  smile,  but  will  not  sigh  : 

If  wine  can  bring  a  chill  like  this, 
Come,  fill  for  me  the  goblet  high ! 

"  Come — and  the  cold,  the  false,  the  dead, 

Shall  never  cross  our  revelry ; 
We'll  kiss  the  wine-cup  sparkling  red, 

And  snap  the  chain  of  Memory." 


Cljarles  Jimno  fjoffmcm. 

THE     MYRTLE     AND     STEEL. 

E  bumper  yet,  gallants,  at  parting, 
One  toast,  ere  we  arm  for  the  fight ; 
Fill  round,  each  to  her  he  loves  dearest ! — 

'Tis  the  last  he  may  pledge  her  to-night. 
Think  of  those  who  of  old  at  the  banquet 

Did  their  weapons  in  garlands  conceal, 
The  patriot  heroes  who  hallowed 

The  entwining  of  myrtle  and  steel ! 

Then  hey  for  the  myrtle  and  steel, 

Then  ho  for  the  myrtle  and  steel, 
Let  every  true  blade  that  e'er  loved  a  fair  maid, 

Fill  round  to  the  myrtle  and  steel ! 

'Tis  in  moments  like  this,  when  each  bosom 
With  its  highest-toned  feeling  is  warm, 

Like  the  music  that's  said  from  the  ocean 
To  rise  ere  the  gathering  storm, 


204  G  OLD  EN  LEAVES. 

That  her  image  around  us  should  hover, 
Whose  name,  though  our  lips  ne'er  reveal, 

We  may  breathe  mid  the  foam  of  a  bumper, 
As  we  drink  to  the  myrtle  and  steel. 
Then  hey  for  the  myrtle  and  steel, 
Then  ho  for  the  myrtle  and  steel, 

Let  every  true  blade  that  e'er  loved  a  fair  maid, 
Fill  round  to  the  myrtle  and  steel ! 

Now  mount !  for  our  bugle  is  ringing 

To  marshal  the  host  for  the  fray, 
Where  proudly  our  banner  is  flinging 

Its  folds  o'er  the  battle-array ; 
Yet,  gallants — one  moment — remember, 

When  your  sabres  the  death-blow  would  deal, 
That  MERCY  wears  her  shape  who's  cherished 

By  lads  of  the  myrtle  and  steel. 

Then  hey  for  the  myrtle  and  steel, 

Then  ho  for  the  myrtle  and  steel, 
Let  every  true  blade  that  e'er  loved  a  fair  maid, 

Fill  round  to  the  myrtle  and  steel ! 


SPARKLING     AND     BRIGHT. 

OPARKLING  and  bright,  in  liquid  light, 
^    Does  the  wine  our  goblets  gleam  in ; 
With  hue  as  red  as  the  rosy  bed 

Which  a  bee  would  choose  to  dream  in. 
Then  fill  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 

And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 


H  0  FFMA  N.  205 

Oh,  if  Mirth  might  arrest  the  flight 

Of  Time  through  Life's  dominions, 
We  here  a  while  would  now  beguile 

The  graybeard  of  his  pinions — 
To  drink  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 

And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

But  since  Delight  can't  tempt  the  wight, 

Nor  fond  Regret  delay  him, 
Nor  Love  himself  can  hold  the  elf, 

Nor  sober  Friendship  stay  him, — 
We'll  drink  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 

And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 


FOREST     MUSINGS. 

'T^HE  hunt  is  up — 

The  merry  woodland  shout, 
That  rung  these  echoing  glades  about 

An  hour  agone, 
Hath  swept  beyond  the  eastern  hills, 

Where,  pale  and  lone, 
The  moon  her  mystic  circle  fills ; 
A  while  across  the  setting  sun's  broad  disk 

The  dusky  larch, 

As  if  to  pierce  the  blue  o'erhanging  arch, 
Lifts  its  tall  obelisk. 


206  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

And  now  from  thicket  dark, 

Where,  by  the  mist-wreathed  river, 
The  fire- fly's  spark 

Will  fitful  quiver, 
And  bubbles  round  the  lily's  cup 
From  lurking  trout  come  coursing  up, 
The  doe  hath  led  her  fawn  to  drink ; 

While,  scared  by  step  so  near, 
Uprising  from  the  sedgy  brink 
The  lonely  bittern's  cry  will  sink 

Upon  the  startled  ear. 

And  thus  upon  my  dreaming  youth, 

When  boyhood's  gambols  pleased  no  more, 
And  young  Romance,  in  guise  of  Truth, 

Usurped  the  heart  all  theirs  before ; 
Thus  broke  Ambition's  trumpet-note 

On  visions  wild, 
Yet  blithesome  as  this  river 
On  which  the  smiling  moonbeams  float, 

That  thus  have  there  for  ages  smiled, 
And  will  thus  smile  forever. 

And  now  no  more  the  fresh  green-wood, 

The  forest's  fretted  aisles, 
And  leafy  domes  above  them  bent, 

And  solitude 

So  eloquent ! 
Mocking  the  varied  skill  that's  blent 

In  Art's  most  gorgeous  piles — 
No  more  can  soothe  my  soul  to  sleep 
Than  they  can  awe  the  sounds  that  sweep 


HOFFMAN.  207 

To  hunter's  horn  and  merriment 

Their  verdant  passes  through, 
When  fresh  the  dun-deer  leaves  his  scent 

Upon  the  morning  dew. 

The  game's  afoot ! — and  let  the  chase 

Lead  on,  whate'er  my  destiny — 
Though  Fate  her  funeral-drum  may  brace 

Full  soon  for  me  ! 

And  wave  Death's  pageant  o'er  me — 
Yet  now  the  new  and  untried  world, 
Like  maiden  banner  first  unfurled, 

Is  glancing  bright  before  me  ! 

The  quarry  soars  !   and  mine  is  now  the  sky, 
Where,  "at  what  bird  I  please,  my  hawk  shall  fly !" 
Yet  something  whispers  through  the  wood — 

A  voice  like  that,  perchance, 
Which  taught  the  haunter  of  EGERIA'S  grove 
To  tame  the  Roman's  dominating  mood 

And  lower,  for  a  while,  his  conquering  lance 
Before  the  images  of  Law  and  Love — 
Some  mystic  voice,  that  ever  since  hath  dwelt 

Along  with  Echo  in  her  dim  retreat, 
A  voice  whose  influence  all,  at  times,  have  felt 

By  wood  or  glen,  or  where  on  silver  strand 
The  clasping  waves  of  Ocean's  belt 
Do  clashing  meet 

Around  the  land  : 
It  whispers  me  that  soon — too  soon 

The  pulses  which  now  beat  so  high, 
Impatient  with  the  world  to  cope, 
Will,  like  the  hues  of  autumn  sky, 


208  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Be  changed  and  fallen  ere  life's  noon 
Should  tame  its  morning  hope. 
It  tells  me  not  of  heart  betrayed, 
Of  health  impaired, 

Of  fruitless  toil, 

And  ills  alike  by  thousands  shared, 
Of  which  each  year  some  link  is  made, 

To  add  to  "  mortal  coil :" 
And  yet  its  strange,  prophetic  tone 
So  faintly  murmurs  to  my  soul 
The  fate  to  be  my  own, 
That  all  of  these  may  be 
Reserved  for  me 
Ere  manhood's  early  years  can  o'er  me  roll. 

Yet  why, 

While  Hope  so  jocund  singeth, 
And  with  her  plumes  the  graybeard's  arrow  wingeth, 

Should  I 

Think  only  of  the  barb  it  bringeth  ? 
Though  every  dream  deceive 

That  to  my  youth  is  dearest, 
Until  my  heart  they  leave 

Like  forest-leaf  when  searest — 
Yet  still,  mid  forest-leaves, 

Where  now 

Its  tissue  thus  my  idle  fancy  weaves, 
Still  with  heart  new-blossoming 
While  leaves,  and  buds,  and  wild  flowers  spring, 

At  Nature's  shrine  I'll  bow; 
Nor  seek  in  vain  that  truth  in  her 
She  keeps  for  her  idolater. 


HOFFMAN.  209 


THE     ORIGIN     OF     MINT     JULEPS. 

"  And  first  behold  this  cordial  Julep  here, 
That  flames  and  dances  in  its  crystal  bounds, 
With  spirits  of  balm  and  fragrant  sirups  mixed  j 
Not  that  Nepenthes  which  the  wife  of  THOME 
In  Egypt  gave  to  Jove-born  HELENA, 
Is  of  such  power  to  stir  up  Joy  as  this, 
To  life  so  friendly,  or  so  cool  to  thirst." 

MILTON — Comus. 

^'TMS  said  that  the  gods,  on  Olympus  of  old 

(And  who  the  bright  legend  profanes  with  a  doubt  ?) 
One  night,  mid  their  revels,  by  BACCHUS  were  told 
That  his  last  butt  of  nectar  had  somehow  run  out ! 

But,  determined  to  send  round  the  goblet  once  more, 

They  sued  to  the  fairer  immortals  for  aid 
In  composing  a  draught,  which,  till  drinking  were  o'er, 

Should  cast  every  wine  ever  drunk  in  the  shade. 

Grave  CERES  herself  blithely  yielded  her  corn ; 

And  the  spirit  that  lives  in  each  amber-hued  grain, 
And  which  first  had  its  birth  in  the  dews  of  the  morn, 

Was  taught  to  steal  out  in  bright  dew-drops  again. 

POMONA,  whose  choicest  of  fruits  on  the  board 
Were  scattered  profusely  in  every  one's  reach, 

When  called  on  a  tribute  to  cull  from  the  hoard, 
Expressed  the  mild  juice  of  the  delicate  peach. 

The  liquids  were  mingled,  while  VENUS  looked  on, 
With  glances  so  fraught  with  sweet  magical  power, 

That  the  honey  of  Hybla,  e'en  when  they  were  gone, 
Has  never  been  missed  in  the  draught  from  that  hour. 


210  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

FLORA  then,  from  her  bosom  of  fragrancy,  shook, 
And  with  roseate  fingers  pressed  down  in  the  bowl, 

All  dripping  and  fresh,  as  it  came  from  the  brook, 
The  herb  whose  aroma  should  flavour  the  whole. 

The  draught  was  delicious,  each  god  did  exclaim, 
Though  something  yet  wanting  they  all  did  bewail ; 

But  juleps  the  drink  of  immortals  became, 
When  JOVE  himself  added  a  handful  of  hail. 


ROSALIE     CLARE. 

"IX^HO  owns  not  she's  peerless,  who  calls  her  not  fair, 

Who  questions  the  beauty  of  ROSALIE  CLARE, 
Let  him  saddle  his  courser  and  spur  to  the  field, 
And,  though  harnessed  in  proof,  he  must  perish  or  yield ; 
For  no  gallant  can  splinter,  no  charger  may  dare 
The  lance  that  is  couched  for  young  ROSALIE  CLARE. 

When  goblets  are  flowing,  and  wit  at  the  board 
Sparkles  high,  while  the  blood  of  the  red  grape  is  poured, 
And  fond  wishes  for  fair  ones  around  offered  up, 
From  each  lip  that  is  wet  with  the  dew  of  the  cup, 
What  name  on  the  brimmer  floats  oftener  there, 
Or  is  whispered  more  warmly,  than  ROSALIE  CLARE  ? 

They  may  talk  of  the  land  of  the  olive  and  vine, 
Of  the  maids  of  the  Ebro,  the  Arno,  or  Rhine ; 
Of  the  houris  that  gladden  the  East  with  their  smiles, 
Where  the  sea's  studded  over  with  green  summer  isles ; 
But  what  flower  of  far-away  clime  can  compare 
With  the  blossom  of  ours  —bright  ROSALIE  CLARE  ? 


MRS.    OLIVER.  211 

Who  owns  not  she's  peerless,  who  calls  her  not  fair, 
Let  him  meet  but  the  glances  of  ROSALIE  CLARE  ! 
Let  him  list  to  her  voice,  let  him  gaze  on  her  form ; 
And  if,  seeing  and  hearing,  his  soul  do  not  warm, 
Let  him  go  breathe  it  out  in  some  less  happy  air 
Than  that  which  is  blessed  by  sweet  ROSALIE  CLARE. 


ia  fytltn  CHfoer. 


MINISTERING     SPIRITS. 

'  I  *HEY  are  winging,  they  are  winging 

••*      Through  the  thin  blue  air  their  way  ; 
Unseen  harps  are  softly  ringing 

Round  about  us,  night  and  day. 
Could  we  pierce  the  shadows  o'er  us, 

And  behold  that  seraph  band, 
Long-lost  friends  would  bright  before  us 

In  angelic  beauty  stand. 

Lo  !  the  dim  blue  mist  is  sweeping 

Slowly  from  my  longing  eyes, 
And  my  heart  is  upward  leaping 

With  a  deep  and  glad  surprise. 
I  behold  them  —  close  beside  me, 

Dwellers  of  the  spirit-land  ; 
Mists  and  shades  alone  divide  me 

From  that  glorious  seraph  band. 

Though  life  never  can  restore  me 
My  sad  bosom's  nestling  dove, 


212  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

\ 

Yet  my  blue-eyed  babe  bends  o'er  me 
With  her  own  sweet  smile  of  love  ; 

And  the  brother,  long  departed, 
Who  in  being's  summer  died — 

Warm,  and  true,  and  gentle-hearted — 
Folds  his  pinions  by  my  side. 

Last  called  from  us,  loved  and  dearest — 

Thou  the  faultless,  tried,  and  true, 
Of  all  earthly  friends  sincerest, 

Mother — I  behold  thee  too  ! 
Lo  !  celestial  light  is  gleaming 

Round  thy  forehead  pure  and  mild, 
And  thine  eyes  with  love  are  beaming 

On  thy  sad,  heart-broken  child ! 

Gentle  sisters  there  are  bending, 

Blossoms  culled  from  life's  parterre ; 
And  my  father's  voice  ascending, 

Floats  along  the  charmed  air. 
Hark  !  those  thrilling  tones  Elysian 

Faint  and  fainter  die  away, 
And  the  bright  seraphic  vision 

Fades  upon  my  sight  for  aye. 

But  I  know  they  hover  round  me 

In  the  morning's  rosy  light, 
And  their  unseen  forms  surround  me 

All  the  deep  and  solemn  night. 
Yes,  they're  winging — yes,  they're  winging 

Through  the  thin  blue  air  their  way ; 
Spirit-harps  are  softly  ringing 

Round  about  us  night  and  day. 


MAR  Y   E.    LEE.  213 


.  fee. 


THE     POETS. 

>TnHE  poets  —  the  poets  — 

-•*       Those  giants  of  the  earth  ; 
In  mighty  strength  they  tower  above 

The  men  of  common  birth  : 
A  noble  race  —  they  mingle  not 

Among  the  motley  throng, 
But  move,  with  slow  and  measured  steps, 

To  music-notes  along. 

The  poets  —  the  poets— 

What  conquests  they  can  boast  ! 
Without  one  drop  of  life-blood  spilt, 

They  rule  a  world's  wide  host  ; 
Their  stainless  banner  floats  unharmed 

From  age  to  lengthened  age  ; 
And  History  records  their  deeds 

Upon  her  proudest  page. 

The  poets  —  the  poets  — 

How  endless  is  their  fame  ! 
Death,  like  a  thin  mist,  comes,  yet  leaves 

No  shadow  on  each  name  ; 
But  as  yon  starry  gems  that  gleam 

In  evening's  crystal  sky, 
So  have  they  won,  in  memory's  depths, 

An  immortality. 


214  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

The  poets — the  poets — 

Who  doth  not  linger  o'er 
The  glorious  volumes  that  contain 

Their  bright  and  spotless  lore  ? 
They  charm  us  in  the  saddest  hours, 

Our  richest  joys  they  feed ; 
And  love  for  them  has  grown  to  be 

A  universal  creed. 

The  poets — the  poets — 

Those  kingly  minstrels  dead, 
Well  may  we  twine  a  votive  wreath 

Around  each  honoured  head  : 
No  tribute  is  too  high  to  give 

Those  crowned  ones  among  men. 
The  poets — the  true  poets — 

Thanks  be  to  GOD  for  them  ! 


to.  iDilliam  (Sroarodl,  JB.  ED. 

THE     CLOUDS. 

"Cloud  land  !  gorgeous  land  !" — COLERIDGE. 

T  CANNOT  look  above  and  see 
Yon  high-piled,  pillowy  mass 
Of  evening  clouds,  so  swimmingly 

In  gold  and  purple  pass, 
And  think  not,  LORD,  how  thou  wast  seen 

On  Israel's  desert  way, 


OR  OS  WELL.  215 

Before  them,  in  thy  shadowy  screen, 
Pavilioned  all  the  day  ! 

Or,  of  those  robes  of  gorgeous  hue 

Which  the  Redeemer  wore, 
When,  ravished  from  his  followers'  view, 

Aloft  his  flight  He  bore, 
When  lifted,  as  on  mighty  wing, 

He  curtained  his  ascent, 
And,  wrapped  in  clouds,  went  triumphing 

Above  the  firmament. 

Is  it  a  trail  of  that  same  pall 

Of  many-coloured  dyes, 
That  high  above,  o'ermantling  all, 

Hangs  midway  down  the  skies — 
Or  borders  of  those  sweeping  folds 

Which  shall  be  all  unfurled 
About  the  Saviour,  when  He  holds 

His  judgment  on  the  world  ? 

For  in  like  manner  as  He  went, — 

My  soul,  hast  thou  forgot  ? — 
Shall  be  his  terrible  descent, 

When  man  expecteth  not ! 
Strength,  Son  of  Man,  against  that  hour, 

Be  to  our  spirits  given, 
When  Thou  shalt  come  again  with  power, 

Upon  the  clouds  of  heaven  ! 


216  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

IDilliam  |)itt  JJ  aimer. 

LINES     TO     A     CHRYSALIS. 

MUSING  long,  I  asked  me  this 
"  Chrysalis, 

Lying  helpless  in  my  path, 
Obvious  to  mortal  scath 
From  a  careless  passer-by, 
What  thy  life  may  signify  ? 
Why,  from  hope  and  joy  apart, 
Thus  thou  art  ? 

"Nature  surely  did  amiss, 

Chrysalis, 

When  she  lavished  fins  and  wings, 
Nerved  with  nicest  moving-springs, 
On  the  mote  and  madrepore. 
Wherewithal  to  swim  or  soar ; 
And  dispensed  so  niggardly 
Unto  thee. 

"  E'en  the  very  worm  may  kiss, 

Chrysalis, 

Roses  on  their  topmost  stems, 
Blazoned  with  their  dewy  gems, 
And  may  rock  him  to  and  fro 
As  the  zephyrs  softly  blow ; 
Whilst  thou  liest,  dark  and  cold, 
On  the  mould." 

Quoth  the  Chrysalis :   "  Sir  Bard, 
Not  so  hard 


PALMER.  217 

Is  my  rounded  destiny 
In  the  great  Economy  . 
Nay,  by  humble  reason  viewed, 
There  is  much  for  gratitude 
In  the  shaping  and  upshot 
Of  my  lot. 

"  Though  I  seem  of  all  things  born 

Most  forlorn, 

Most  obtuse  of  soul  and  sense, 
Next  of  kin  to  Impotence, 
Nay,  to  Death  himself;  yet  ne'er 
Priest  or  prophet,  sage  or  seer, 
May  sublimer  wisdom  teach 

Than  I  preach. 

"  From  my  pulpit  of  the  sod, 

Like  a  god, 

I  proclaim  this  wondrous  truth : 
Farthest  age  is  nearest  youth, 
Nearest  Glory's  natal  porch, 
Where,  with  pale,  inverted  torch, 
Death  lights  downward  to  the  rest 

Of  the  blest. 

"  Mark  yon  airy  butterfly's 

Rainbow-dyes  ! 
Yesterday  that  shape  divine 
Was  as  darkly  hearsed  as  mine ; 
But  to-morrow  I  shall  be 
Free  and  beautiful  as  she, 
And  sweep  forth  on  wings  of  light, 

Like  a  sprite. 


2l8  G  OLDEN   LEAVES. 

"  Soul  of  man  in  crypt  of  clay  ! 

Bide  the  day 

When  thy  latent  wings  shall  be 
Plumed  for  immortality, 
And  with  transport  marvellous 
Cleave  their  dark  sarcophagus, 
O'er  Elysian  fields  to  soar 

Evermore !" 


JITarj)  Noel  fttriga. 

THE     SPELLS     OF     MEMORY. 

TT  was  but  the  note  of  a  summer  bird, 

But  a  dream  of  the  past  in  my  heart  it  stirred, 
And  wafted  me  far  to  a  breezy  spot, 
Where  blossomed  the  blue  forget-me-not. 
And  the  broad,  green  boughs  gave  a  checkered  gleam 
To  the  dancing  waves  of  a  mountain-stream ; 
And  there,  in  the  heat  of  a  summer  day, 
Again  on  the  velvet  turf  I  lay, 
And  saw  bright  shapes  in  the  floating  clouds, 
And  reared  fair  domes  mid  their  fleecy  shrouds, 
As  I  looked  aloft  to  the  azure  sky, 
And  longed  for  a  bird's  soft  plumes  to  fly, 
Till  lost  in  its  depths  of  purity. 

Alas !  I  have  waked  from  that  early  dream  : 
Far,  far  away  is  the  mountain-stream ; 
And  the  dewy  turf,  where  so  oft  I  lay, 
And  the  woodland  flowers,  they  are  far  away ; 


MRS.   MEIGS.     .  219 

And  the  skies  that  once  were  to  me  so  blue, 

Now  bend  above  with  a  darker  hue  : 

And  yet  I  may  wander  in  fancy  back, 

At  Memory's  call,  to  my  childhood's  track, 

And  the  fount  of  Thought  hath  been  deeply  stirred 

By  the  passing  note  of  a  summer  bird. 

It  was  but  the  rush  of  the  autumn  wind, 
But  it  left  a  spell  of  the  past  behind, 
And  I  was  abroad  with  my  brothers  twain 
In  the  tangled  paths  of  the  wood  again : 
Where  the  leaves  were  rustling  beneath  our  feet, 
And  the  merry  shout  of  our  gleesome  mood 
Was  echoed  far  in  the  solitude, 
As  we  caught  the  prize  which  a  kindly  breeze 
Sent  down  in  a  shower  from  the  chestnut-trees. 

Oh  !  a  weary  time  hath  passed  away 
Since  rny  brothers  were  out  by  my  side  at  play ; 
A  weary  time,  with  its  weight  of  care, 
And  its  toil  in  the  city's  crowded  air, 
And  its  pining  wish  for  the  hill-tops  high ; 
For  the  laughing  stream  and  the  clear  blue  sky ; 
For  the  shaded  dell,  and  the  leafy  halls 
Of  the  old  green  wood  where  the  sunlight  falls. 

But  I  see  the  haunts  of  my  early  days — 
The  old  green  wood  where  the  sunshine  plays, 
And  the  flashing  stream  in  its  course  of  light, 
And  the  hill-tops  high,  and  the  sky  so  bright, 
And  the  silent  depths  of  the  shaded  dell. 
Where  the  twilight  shadows  at  noonday  fell ; 
And  the  mighty  charm  which  hath  conquered  these 
Is  naught,  save  a  rush  of  the  autumn  breeze. 


220  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

It  was  but  a  violet's  faint  perfume, 
But  it  bore  me  back  to  a  quiet  room, 
Where  a  gentle  girl  in  the  spring-time  gay 
Was  breathing  her  fair  young  life  away, 
Whose  light  through  the  rose-hued  curtains  fell, 
And  tinted  her  cheek  like  the  ocean-shell ; 
And  the  southern  breeze  on  its  fragrant  wings 
Stole  in  with  its  tale  of  all  lovely  things ; 
Where  Love  watched  on  through  the  long,  long  hours, 
And  Friendship  came  with  its  gift  of  flowers ; 
And  Death  drew  near  with  a  stealthy  tread, 
And  lightly  pillowed  in  dust  her  head, 
And  sealed  up  gently  the  lids  so  fair, 
And  damped  the  brow  with  its  clustering  hair, 
And  left  the  maiden  in  slumber  deep, 
To  waken  no  more  from  that  tranquil  sleep. 

Then  we  laid  the  flower  her  hand  had  pressed 
To  wither  and  die  on  her  gentle  breast ; 
And  back  to  the  shade  of  that  quiet  room 
I  go  with  the  violet's  faint  perfume. 


(£oatc0  JTmkneg. 

ITALY. 

thou  the  land  which  lovers  ought  to  choose  ? 
Like  blessings  there  descend  the  sparkling  dews  ; 
In  gleaming  streams  the  crystal  rivers  run, 
The  purple  vintage  clusters  in  the  sun ; 
Odours  of  flowers  haunt  the  balmy  breeze, 
Rich  fruits  hang  high  upon  the  verdant  trees ; 


PINK  NET.  221 

And  vivid  blossoms  gem  the  shady  groves, 
Where  bright-plumed  birds  discourse  their  careless  loves. 
Beloved  ! — speed  we  from  this  sullen  strand, 
Until  thy  light  feet  press  that  green  shore's  yellow  sand. 

Look  seaward  thence,  and  naught  shall  meet  thine  eye 
But  fairy  isles,  like  paintings  on  the  sky ; 
And,  flying  fast  and  free  before  the  gale, 
The  gaudy  vessel  with  its  glancing  sail  \ 
And  waters  glittering  in  the  glare  of  noon, 
Or  touched  with  silver  by  the  stars  and  moon, 
Or  flecked  with  broken  lines  of  crimson  light, 
When  the  far  fisher's  fire  affronts  the  night. 
Lovely  as  loved  !   toward  that  smiling  shore 
Bear  we  our  household  gods,  to  fix  forever  more. 

It  looks  a  dimple  on  the  face  of  Earth, 
The  seal  of  Beauty,  and  the  shrine  of  Mirth ; 
Nature  is  delicate  and  graceful  there, 
The  place's  Genius,  feminine  and  fair ; 
The  winds  are  awed,  nor  dare  to  breathe  aloud ; 
The  air  seems  never  to  have  borne  a  cloud, 
Save  where  volcanoes  send  to  heaven  their  curled 
And  solemn  smokes,  like  altars  of  the  world. 
Thrice  beautiful  ! — to  that  delightful  spot 
Carry  our  married  hearts,  and  be  all  pain  forgot. 

There  Art,  too,  shows,  when  Nature's  beauty  palls, 
Her  sculptured  marbles,  and  her  pictured  walls ; 
And  there  are  forms  in  which  they  both  conspire 
To  whisper  themes  that  know  not  how  to  tire ; 
The  speaking  ruins,  in  that  gentle  clime, 
Have  but  been  hallowed  by  the  hand  of  Time, 


222  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

And  each  can  mutely  prompt  some  thought  of  flam< 
The  meanest  stone  is  not  without  a  name. 
Then  come,  beloved  ! — hasten  o'er  the  sea, 
To  build  our  happy  hearth  in  blooming  Italy. 


Ket).  ©eorge  U).  Bettyune,  JB. 


I 


NIGHT     STUDY. 

AM  alone ;  and  yet 
In  the  still  solitude  there  is  a  rush 
Around  me,  as  were  met 
A  crowd  of  viewless  wings ;  I  hear  a  gush 
Of  uttered  harmonies — heaven  meeting  earth, 
Making  it  to  rejoice  with  holy  mirth. 

Ye  winged  Mysteries, 
Sweeping  before  my  spirit's  conscious  eye, 

Beckoning  me  to  arise, 
And  go  forth  from  my  very  self,  and  fly 
With  you  far  in  the  unknown,  unseen  immense 
Of  worlds  beyond  our  sphere — what  are  ye  ?  whence  ? 

Ye  eloquent  Voices, 
Now  soft  as  breathings  of  a  distant  flute, 

Now  strong  as  when  rejoices 
The  trumpet  in  the  victory  and  pursuit ; 

Strange  are  ye,  yet  familiar,  as  ye  call 
My  soul  to  wake  from  earth's  sense  and  its  thrall. 


B-ETHUNE.  223 

I  know  you  now — I  see 
With  more  than  natural  light — ye  are  the  good 

The  wise  departed — ye 

Are  come  from  heaven  to  claim  your  brotherhood 
With  mortal  brother,  struggling  in  the  strife 
And  chains,  which  once  were  yours  in  this  sad  life. 

Ye  hover  o'er  the  page 
Ye  traced  in  ancient  days  with  glorious  thought 

For  many  a  distant  age ; 
Ye  love  to  watch  the  inspiration  caught 
From  your  sublime  examples,  and  so  cheer 
The  fainting  student  to  your  high  career. 

Ye  come  to  nerve  the  soul, 
Like  him  who  near  the  ATONER  stood,  when  HE, 

Trembling,  saw  round  him  roll 
The  wrathful  portents  of  Gethsemane, 
With  courage  strong :   the  promise  ye  have  known 
And  proved,  rapt  for  me  from  the  Eternal  throne. 

Still  keep,  oh,  keep  me  near  you ! 
Compass  me  round  with  your  immortal  wings : 

Still  let  my  glad  soul  hear  you 
Striking  your  triumphs  from  your  golden  strings, 
Until  with  you  I  mount  and  join  the  song, 
An  angel,  like  you,  mid  the  white-robed  throng. 


224  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

(gcorge  |p.  fllorrta. 

WOODMAN,    SPARE     THAT     TREE. 

VK7OODMAN,  spare  that  tree! 
Touch  not  a  single  bough  ! 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me, 

And  I'll  protect  it  now. 
'Twas  my  forefather's  hand 

That  placed  it  near  his  cot ; 
There,  woodman,  let  it  stand — 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not ! 

That  old  familiar  tree, 

Whose  glory  and  renown 
Are  spread  o'er  land  and  sea, 

And  wouldst  thou  hew  it  down  ? 
Woodman,  forbear  thy  stroke  ! 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties ; 
Oh,  spare  that  aged  oak, 

Now  towering  to  the  skies ! 

When  but  an  idle  boy, 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade ; 
In  all  their  gushing  joy 

Here  too  my  sisters  played. 
My  mother  kissed  me  here ; 

My  father  pressed  my  hand — 
Forgive  this  foolish  tear, 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand ! 

My  heart-strings  round  thee  cling 
Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend  ! 


MORRIS.  225 


Here  shall  the  wild-bird  sing, 
And  still  thy  branches  bend. 

Old  tree  !  the  storm  still  brave  ! 
And,  woodman,  leave  the  spot 

While  I've  a  hand  to  save, 
Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not ! 


THE     WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

\T7HY  dost  thou  come,  at  set  of  sun, 

Those  pensive  words  to  say  ? 
Why  whip  poor  Will  ? — what  has  he  done  ? 
And  who  is  Will,  I  pray  ? 

Why  come  from  yon  leaf-shaded  hill, 

A  suppliant  at  my  door  ? 
Why  ask  of  me  to  whip  poor  Will  ? 

And  is  Will  really  poor  ? 

If  poverty's  his  crime,  let  mirth 

From  out  his  heart  be  driven ; 
That  is  the  deadliest  sin  on  earth, 

And  never  is  forgiven. 

Art  Will  himself?     It  must  be  so — 

I  learn  it  from  thy  moan ; 
For  none  can  feel  another's  woe 

As  deeply  as  his  own. 

Yet  wherefore  strain  thy  tiny  throat 

While  other  birds  repose  ? 
What  means  thy  melancholy  note  ? 

The  mystery  disclose. 


226  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Still  "  Whip  poor  Will !"— Art  thou  a  sprite 

From  unknown  regions  sent, 
To  wander  in  the  gloom  of  night, 

And  ask  for  punishment  ? 

Is  thine  a  conscience  sore  beset 
With  guilt  ? — or,  what  is  worse, 

Hast  thou  to  meet  writs,  duns,  and  debt, 
No  money  in  thy  purse  ? 

If  this  be  thy  hard  fate  indeed, 
Ah  !  well  mayst  thou  repine ; 

The  sympathy  I  give  I  need — 
The  poet's  doom  is  thine. 

Art  thou  a  lover,  Will  ? — hast  proved 

The  fairest  can  deceive  ? 
Thine  is  the  lot  of  all  who've  loved, 

Since  Adam  wedded  Eve. 

Hast  trusted  in  a  friend,  and  seen 

No  friend  was  he  in  need  ? 
A  common  error — men  still  lean 

Upon  as  frail  a  reed. 

Hast  thou,  in  seeking  wealth  and  fame, 

A  crown  of  brambles  won  ? 
O'er  all  the  earth  'tis  just  the  same, 

With  every  mother's  son. 

Hast  found  the  world  a  Babel  wide, 
Where  man  to  Mammon  stoops — 

Where  flourish  arrogance  and  pride, 
While  modest  merit  droops  ? 


MORRIS.  227 

What !  none  of  these  ?    Then  whence  thy  pain — 

To  guess  it  who's  the  skill  ? 
Pray  have  the  kindness  to  explain 

Why  I  should  whip  poor  Will  ? 

Dost  merely  ask  thy  just  desert  ? 

What !   not  another  word  ? 
Back  to  the  woods  again,  unhurt — 

I  would  not  harm  thee,  bird  ! 

But  treat  thee  kindly — for  my  nerves, 

Like  thine,  have  penance  done ; 
Use  every  man  as  he  deserves, 

Who  shall  'scape  whipping  ? — NONE  ! 

Farewell,  poor  Will ! — not  valueless 

This  lesson  by  thee  given ; 
Keep  thine  own  counsel,  and  confess 

Thyself  alone  to  Heaven  ! 


MY   MOTHER'S   BIBLE. 


book  is  all  that's  left  me  now  ! 
Tears  will  unbidden  start  — 
With  faltering  lip  and  throbbing  brow 

I  press  it  to  my  heart. 
For  many  generations  past, 
Here  is  our  family  tree  ; 
My  mother's  hands  this  Bible  clasped  — 
She,  dying,  gave  it  me. 

Ah  !   well  do  I  remember  those 
Whose  names  these  records  bear, 


228    '  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Who  round  the  hearthstone  used  to  close 

After  the  evening  prayer, 
And  speak  of  what  these  pages  said, 

In  tones  my  heart  would  thrill : 
Though  they  are  with  the  silent  dead, 

Here  are  they  living  still ! 

My  father  read  this  holy  book 

To  brothers,  sisters  dear ; 
How  calm  was  my  poor  mother's  look, 

Who  leaned  GOD'S  word  to  hear  ! 
Her  angel  face — I  see  it  yet ; 

What  thronging  memories  come  ! 
Again  that  little  group  is  met 

Within  the  halls  of  home  ! 

Thou  truest  friend  man  ever  knew, 

Thy  constancy  I've  tried ; 
Where  all  were  false  I  found  thee  true, 

My  counsellor  and  guide. 
The  mines  of  earth  no  treasure  give 

That  could  this  volume  buy  : 
In  teaching  me  the  way  to  live, 

It  taught  me  how  to  die. 


THE     WEST. 

T  TO  !   brothers — come  hither,  and  list  to  my  story- 

Merry  and  brief  will  the  narrative  be : 
Here,  like  a  monarch,  I  reign  in  my  glory — 
Master  am  I,  boys,  of  all  that  I  see. 


MORRIS.  229 

Where  once  frowned  a  forest  a  garden  is  smiling — 
The  meadow  and  moorland  are  marshes  no  more ; 

And  there  curls  the  smoke  of  my  cottage,  beguiling 
The  children  who  cluster  like  grapes  at  the  door. 

Then  enter,  boys ;  cheerly,  boys,  enter  and  rest — 

The  land  of  the  heart  is  the  land  of  the  West. 
Oho,  boys ! — oho,  boys ! — oho  ! 

Talk  not  of  the  town,  boys — give  me  the  broad  prairie, 

Where  man,  like  the  wind,  roams  impulsive  and  free ; 
Behold  how  its  beautiful  colours  all  vary, 

Like  those  of  the  clouds,  or  the  deep-rolling  sea  ! 
A  life  in  the  woods,  boys,  is  even  as  changing ; 

With  proud  independence  we  season  our  cheer, 
And  those  who  the  world  are  for  happiness  ranging 

Won't  find  it  at  all  if  they  don't  find  it  here. 
Then  enter,  boys ;  cheerly,  boys,  enter  and  rest ; 
I'll  show  you  the  life,  boys,  we  live  in  the  West. 
Oho,  boys ! — oho,  boys ! — oho  ! 

Here,  brothers,  secure  from  all  turmoil  and  danger, 

We  reap  what  we  sow,  for  the  soil  is  our  own ; 
We  spread  hospitality's  board  for  the  stranger, 

And  care  not  a  fig  for  the  king  on  his  throne. 
We  never  know  want,  for  we  live  by  our  labour, 

And  in  it  contentment  and  happiness  find ; 
We  do  what  we  can  for  a  friend  or  a  neighbour, 

And  die,  boys,  in  peace  and  good-will  to  mankind. 
Then  enter,  boys ;  cheerly,  boys,  enter  and  rest ; 
You  know  how  we  live,  boys,  and  die  in  the  West ! 
Oho,  boys  ! — oho,  boys ! — oho  ! 
n* 


230  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 


ta  lane  JJUrson. 

THE     WILD-WOOD     HOME. 

,  show  me  a  place  like  the  wild-wood  home, 
Where  the  air  is  fragrant  and  free, 
And  the  first  pure  breathings  of  Morning  come 

In  a  gush  of  melody  ! 
She  lifts  the  soft  fringe  from  her  dark-blue  eye 

With  a  radiant  smile  of  love, 
And  the  diamonds  that  o'er  her  bosom  lie 
Are  bright  as  the  gems  above  ; 

Where  noon  lies  down  in  the  breezy  shade 

Of  the  glorious  forest  bowers, 
And  the  beautiful  birds  from  the  sunny  glades 

Sit  nodding  amongst  the  flowers, 
While  the  holy  child  of  the  mountain-spring 

Steals  past  with  a  murmured  song, 
And  the  honey-bees  sleep  in  the  bells  that  swing 

Its  garlanded  banks  along  ; 

Where  Day  steals  away,  with  a  young  bride's  blush, 

To  the  soft  green  couch  of  Night, 
And  the  Moon  throws  o'er,  with  a  holy  hush, 

Her  curtain  of  gossamer  light  ; 
And  the  seraph  that  sings  in  the  hemlock  dell 

(Oh,  sweetest  of  birds  is  she  !) 
Fills  the  dewy  breeze  with  a  trancing  swell 

Of  melody  rich  and  free  ; 

There  are  sumptuous  mansions  with  marble  walls, 
Surmounted  by  glittering  towers, 


GREENE.  231 

Where  fountains  play  in  the  perfumed  halls 

Amongst  exotic  flowers : 
They  are  suitable  homes  for  the  haughty  in  mind, 

Yet  a  wild-wood  home  for  me, 
Where  the  pure  bright  streams,  and  the  mountain-wind, 

And  the  bounding  heart,  are  free  ! 


Albert  (&.  @mnc. 
THE   BARON'S   LAST   BANQJJET. 

/^"VER  a  low  couch  the  setting  sun  had  thrown  its  latest 

ray, 

Where,  in  his  last  strong  agony,  a  dying  warrior  lay — 
The  stern  old  Baron  RUDIGER,  whose  frame  had  ne'er  been 

bent 
By  wasting  pain,  till  time  and  toil  its  iron  strength  had 

spent. 

"  They  come  around  me  here,  and  say  my  days  of  life  are 

o'er— 
That  I  shall  mount  my  noble  steed  and  lead  my  band  no 

more; 
They  come,  and,  to  my  beard,  they  dare  to  tell  me  now 

that  I, 
Their  own  liege-lord  and  master  born,  that  I — ha  !  ha  ! — 

must  die. 

"And  what  is   Death?     I've   dared  him   oft,  before   the 

Paynim  spear ; — 
Think  ye  he's  entered  at  my  gate — has  come  to  seek  me 

here  ? 


232  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Pve  met  him,  faced  him,  scorned  him,  when  the  fight  was 

raging  hot ; — 
I'll  try  his  might — I'll  brave  his  power ;  defy,  and  fear  him 

not ! 

"  Ho  !  sound  the  tocsin  from  my  tower,  and  fire  the  cul- 
verin ; 

Bid  each  retainer  arm  with  speed  :   call  every  vassal  in. 

Up  with  my  banner  on  the  wall ! — the  banquet-board  pre- 
pare,— 

Throw  wide  the  portal  of  my  hall,  and  bring  my  armour 
there !" 

A  hundred  hands  were  busy  then  :   the  banquet  forth  was 

spread, 
And  rang  the   heavy  oaken    floor  with    many   a   martial 

tread  • 
While    from    the    rich,    dark    tracery,    along    the    vaulted 

wall, 
Lights  gleamed  on  harness,  plume,  and  spear,  o'er  the  proud 

old  Gothic  hall. 

Fast  hurrying  through  the  outer  gate,  the  mailed  retainers 

poured 
On  through  the  portal's  frowning  arch,  and  thronged  around 

the  board ; 
While  at  its  head,  within  his  dark,  carved,-  oaken  chair  of 

state, 
Armed  cap-a-pie,  stern  RUDIGER,  with  girded  falchion,  sate. 

"  Fill  every  beaker  up,  my  men — pour  forth  the  cheering 

wine  ! 
There's  life  and  strength  in  every  drop — thanksgiving  to 

the  vine  ! 


GREENE.  233 

Are  ye  all  there,  my  vassals  true  ? — mine  eyes  are  waxing 

dim  : 
Fill  round,  my  tried  and  fearless  ones,  each  goblet  to  the 

brim  ! 

"Ye're  there;    but  yet  I  see  ye  not.     Draw  forth  each 

trusty  sword, 
And  let  me  hear  your  faithful  steel  clash  once  around  my 

board. 
I  hear  it  faintly.      Louder  yet ! — What  clogs   my  heavy 

breath  ? 
Up  all,  and  shout  for  RUDIGER — '  Defiance  unto  Death  !' " 

Bowl  rang  to  bowl,  steel  clanged  to  steel,  and  rose  a  deaf- 
ening cry, 

That  made  the  torches  flare  around,  and  shook  the  flags  on 
high. 

"  Ho  !  cravens,  do  ye  fear  him  ? — Slaves,  traitors,  have  ye 
flown  ? 

Ho  !  cowards,  have  ye  left  me  to  meet  him  here  alone  ? 

"  But  I  defy  him — let  him  come  !"     Down  rang  the  massy 

cup, 
While  from  its  sheath  the  ready  blade  came  flashing  half 

way  up ; 
And,  with  the  black  and  heavy  plumes  scarce  trembling  on 

his  head, 
There,  in  his  dark,  carved,  oaken  chair,  old  RUDIGER  sat, 

dead. 


234  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 


OLD     GRIMES. 

S~\LD  GRIMES  is  dead!   that  good  old  man 
^-^      We  never  shall  see  more  : 
He  used  to  wear  a  long,  black  coat, 
All  buttoned  down  before. 

His  heart  was  open  as  the  day ; 

His  feelings  all  were  true  : 
His  hair  was  some  inclined  to  gray — 

He  wore  it  in  a  queue. 

Whene'er  he  heard  the  voice  of  pain, 

His  breast  with  pity  burned ; 
The  large,  round  head  upon  his  cane 

From  ivory  was  turned. 

Kind  words  he  ever  had  for  all ; 

He  knew  no  base  design : 
His  eyes  were  dark  and  rather  small, 

His  nose  was  aquiline. 

He  lived  at  peace  with  all  mankind, 

In  friendship  he  was  true : 
His  coat  had  pocket-holes  behind, 

His  pantaloons  were  blue. 

Unharmed,  the  sin  which  earth  pollutes 

He  passed  securely  o'er, 
And  never  wore  a  pair  of  boots 

For  thirty  years  or  more. 


GREENE.  235 

But  good  old  GRIMES  is  now  at  rest, 

Nor  fears  Misfortune's  frown  : 
He  wore  a  double-breasted  vest — 

The  stripes  ran  up  and  down. 

He  modest  merit  sought  to  find, 

And  pay  it  its  desert : 
He  had  no  malice  in  his  mind, 

No  ruffles  on  his  shirt. 

His  neighbours  he  did  not  abuse — 

Was  sociable  and  gay  : 
He  wore  large  buckles  on  his  shoes, 

And  changed  them  every  day. 

His  knowledge,  hid  from  public  gaze, 

He  did  not  bring  to  view, 
Nor  make  a  noise  town-meeting  days, 

As  many  people  do. 

His  worldly  goods  he  never  threw 

In  trust  to  Fortune's  chances, 
But  lived  (as  all  his  brothers  do) 

In  easy  circumstances. 

Thus  undisturbed  by  anxious  cares, 

His  peaceful  moments  ran ; 
And  everybody  said  he  was 

A  fine  old  gentleman. 


236  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 


Cooper. 

LEGENDS     OF      FLOWERS. 

,  gorgeous  tales,  in  days  of  old, 
Were  linked  with  opening  flowers, 
As  if  in  their  fairy  urns  of  gold 

Beat  human  hearts  like  ours  ; 
The  nuns  in  their  cloister,  sad  and  pale, 

As  they  watched  soft  buds  expand, 
On  their  glowing  petals  traced  a  tale 

Or  legend  of  Holy  Land. 
Brightly  to  them  did  thy  snowy  leaves 

For  the  sainted  MARY  shine, 
As  they  twined  for  her  forehead  vestal  wreaths 

Of  thy  white  buds,  cardamine  ! 

The  crocus  shone,  when  the  fields  were  bare, 

With  a  gay,  rejoicing  smile  ; 
But  the  hearts  that  answered  Love's  tender  prayer 

Grew  brightened  with  joy  the  while. 
Of  the  coming  spring  and  the  summer's  light, 

To  others  that  flower  might  say  ; 
But  the  lover  welcomed  the  herald  bright 

Of  the  glad  St.  VALENTINE'S  day. 
The  crocus  was  hailed  as  a  happy  flower, 

And  the  holy  saint  that  day 
Poured  out  on  the  earth  their  golden  shower 

To  light  his  votaries'  way. 

On  the  day  of  St.  GEORGE,  the  brave  St.  GEORGE, 
To  merry  England  dear, 


MISS   HO  OPE  It.  237 

By  field  and  by  fell,  and  by  mountain-gorge, 

Shone  hyacinths  blue  and  clear : 
Lovely  and  prized  was  their  purple  light, 

And  'twas  said  in  ancient  story, 
That  their  fairy  bells  rang  out  at  night 

A  peal  to  old  England's  glory ; 
And  sages  read  in  the  azure  hue 

Of  the  flowers  so  widely  known, 
That  by  white  sail  spread  over  ocean's  blue 

Should  the  empire's  right  be  shown. 

And  thou  of  faithful  memory, 

St.  JOHN,  thou  "  shining  light," 
Beams  not  a  burning  torch  for  thee, 

The  scarlet  lychnis  bright  ? 
While  holy  MARY,  at  thy  shrine, 

Another  pure  flower  blooms, 
Welcome  to  thee  with  news  divine, 

The  lily's  faint  perfumes ; 
Proudly  its  stately  head  it  rears, 

Arrayed  in  virgin  white — 
So  Truth,  amid  a  world  of  tears, 

Doth  shine  with  vestal  light. 

And  thou,  whose  opening  buds  were  shown 

A  Saviour's  cross  beside, 
We  hail  thee,  passion-flower  alone, 

Sacred  to  CHRIST,  who  died. 
No  image  of  a  mortal  love, 

May  thy  bright  blossoms  be 
Linked  with  a  passion  far  above — 

A  Saviour's  agony. 


238  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

All  other  flowers  are  pale  and  dim, 

All  other  gifts  are  loss ; 
We  twine  thy  matchless  buds  for  Him 

Who  died  on  holy  cross. 


James  3Tack. 

SPRING      IS      COMING. 

OPRING  is  coming  !   Spring  is  coming  ! 
Birds  are  chirping,  insects  humming ; 
Flowers  are  peeping  from  their  sleeping ; 
Streams,  escaped  from  Winter's  keeping, 
In  delighted  freedom  rushing, 
Dance  along  in  music  gushing ; 
Scenes  of  late  in  deadness  saddened, 
Smile  in  animation  gladdened  : 
All  is  beauty,  all  is  mirth, 
All  is  glory  upon  earth. 
Shout  we,  then,  with  Nature's  voice — 
"  Welcome,  Spring  !  rejoice  !   rejoice  !" 

Spring  is  coming  ! — Come,  my  brother, 
Let  us  rove  with  one  another 
To  our  well-remembered  wild-wood, 
Flourishing  in  Nature's  childhood, 
Where  a  thousand  flowers  are  springing, 
And  a  thousand  birds  are  singing ; 
Where  the  golden  sunbeams  quiver 
On  the  verdure-bordered  river ; 


SIM  .US.  239 

Let  our  youth  of  feeling  out 
To  the  youth  of  Nature  shout, 
While  the  waves  repeat  our  voice — 
"  Welcome,  Spring  !  rejoice  !  rejoice  !" 


lUilUam  CBnlmon  Sirnrna. 

THE     LOST     PLEIAD. 

in  the  sky, 
Where  it  was  seen, 
Nor  on  the  white  tops  of  the  glistering  wave, 
Nor  in  the  mansions  of  the  hidden  deep, — 
Though  green, 

And  beautiful  its  caves  of  mystery, — 
Shall  the  bright  watcher  have 
A  place — and,  as  of  old,  high  station  keep. 

Gone,  gone  ! 

Oh,  never  more  to  cheer 

The  mariner  who  holds  his  course  alone 

On  the  Atlantic,  through  the  weary  night, 

When  the  stars  turn  to  watchers  and  do  sleep, 

Shall  it  appear, 

With  the  sweet  fixedness  of  certain  light, 

Down-shining  on  the  shut  eyes  of  the  Deep. 

Vain,  vain ! 

Hopeful  most  idly  then,  shall  he  look  forth, 

That  mariner  from  his  bark — 

Howe'er  the  North 

Doth  raise  his  certain  lamp  when  tempests  lower- 


240  G  OLDEN  LEAVE  S. 

He  sees  no  more  that  perished  light  again  ! 

And  gloomier  grows  the  hour 

Which  may  not,  through  the  thick  and  crowding  dark., 

Restore  that  lost  and  loved  one  to  her  tower. 

He  looks, — the  shepherd  on  Chaldea's  hills, 

Tending  his  flocks, — 

And  wonders  the  rich  beacon  doth  not  blaze, 

Gladdening  his  gaze  ; 

And,  from  his  dreary  watch  along  the  rocks, 

Guiding  him  safely  home  through  perilous  ways ! 

How  stands  he  in  amaze, 

Still  wondering,  as  the  drowsy  silence  fills 

The  sorrowful  scene,  and  every  hour  distils 

Its  leaden  dews — how  chafes  he  at  the  night, 

Still  slow  to  bring  the  expected  and  sweet  light, 

So  natural  to  his  sight ! 

And  lone, 

Where  its  first  splendours  shone, 

Shall  be  that  pleasant  company  of  stars : 

How  should  they  know  that  death 

Such  perfect  beauty  mars ; 

And,  like  the  earth,  its  common  bloom  and  breath, 

Fallen  from  on  high, 

Their  lights  grow  blasted  by  its  touch,  and  die — 

All  their  concerted  springs  of  harmony 

Snapped  rudely,  and  the  generous  music  gone  ? 

A  strain — a  mellow  strain — 
Of  wailing  sweetness,  filled  the  earth  and  sky ; 
The  Stars  lamenting  in  unborrowed  pain 
That  one  of  the  selectest  ones  must  die ; 


SIMMS.  241 

Must  vanish,  when  most  lovely,  from  the  rest ! 
Alas !  'tis  ever  more  the  destiny, 
The  hope,  heart-cherished,  is  the  soonest  lost ; 
The  flower  first  budded  soonest  feels  the  frost : 
Are  not  the  shortest-lived  still  loveliest  ? 
And,  like  the  pale  star  shooting  down  the  sky, 
Look  they  not  ever  brightest  when  they  fly 
The  desolate  home  they  blessed  ? 


THE     EDGE     OF     THE     SWAMP. 

?'  I  ^IS  a  wild  spot,  and  hath  a  gloomy  look; 

The  bird  sings  never  merrily  in  the  trees, 
And  the  young  leaves  seem  blighted.     A  rank  growth 
Spreads  poisonously  round,  with  power  to  taint 
With  blistering  dews  the  thoughtless  hand  that  dares 
To  penetrate  the  covert.      Cypresses 
Crowd  on  the  dank,  wet  earth ;  and,  stretched  at  length, 
The  cayman — a  fit  dweller  in  such  home — 
Slumbers,  half-buried  in  the  sedgy  grass. 
Beside  the  green  ooze,  where  he  shelters  him, 
A  whooping  crane  erects  his  skeleton  form, 
And  shrieks  in  flight.     Two  summer  ducks,  aroused 
To  apprehension,  as  they  hear  his  cry, 
Dash  up  from  the  lagoon,  with  marvellous  haste, 
Following  his  guidance.     Meetly  taught  by  these, 
And  startled  at  our  rapid,  near  approach, 
The  steel-jawed  monster,  from  his  grassy  bed, 
Crawls  slowly  to  his  slimy,  green  abode, 
Which  straight  receives  him.     You  behold  him  now, 


242  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

His  ridgy  back  uprising  as  he  speeds 
In  silence  to  the  centre  of  the  stream, 
Whence  his  head  peers  alone.     A  butterfly, 
That,  travelling  all  the  day,  has  counted  climes 
Only  by  flowers,  to  rest  himself  a  while, 
Lights  on  the  monster's  brow.      The  surly  mute 
Straightway  goes  down  so  suddenly,  that  he, 
The  dandy  of  the  summer  flowers  and  woods, 
Dips  his  light  wings,  and  spoils  his  golden  coat, 
With  the  rank  water  of  that  turbid  pond. 
Wondering  and  vexed,  the  plumed  citizen 
Flies,  with  a  hurried  effort,  to  the  shore, 
Seeking  his  kindred  flowers :   but  seeks  in  vain — 
Nothing  of  genial  growth  may  there  be  seen, 
Nothing  of  beautiful !      Wild,  ragged  trees, 
That  look  like  felon  spectres — fetid  shrubs, 
That  taint  the  gloomy  atmosphere — dusk  shades, 
That  gather,  half  a  cloud  and  half  a  fiend 
In  aspect,  lurking  on  the  swamp's  wild  edge, — 
Gloom  with  their  sternness  and  forbidding  frowns 
The  general  prospect.      The  sad  butterfly, 
Waving  his  lackered  wings,  darts  quickly  on, 
And,  by  his  free  flight,  counsels  us  to  speed 
For  better  lodgings,  and  a  scene  more  sweet 
Than  these  drear  borders  offer  us  to-night. 


MRS.    STEPHEN'S.  243 


.  Stepljats. 

DROPPING     LEAVES. 

E  leaves  are  dropping,  dropping, 
And  I  watch  them  as  they  go  ; 
Now  whirling,  floating,  stopping, 
With  a  look  of  noiseless  woe. 
Yes,  I  watch  them  in  their  falling, 
As  they  tremble  from  the  stem, 
With  a  stillness  so  appalling  — 

And  my  heart  goes  down  with  them  ! 

Yes,  I  see  them  floating  round  me 

Mid  the  beating  of  the  rain, 
Like  the  hopes  that  still  have  bound  me 

To  the  fading  past  again. 
They  are  floating  through  the  stillness, 

They  are  given  to  the  storm  — 
And  they  tremble  off  like  phantoms 

Of  a  joy  that  has  no  form. 

But  the  proud  tree  stands  up  prouder, 

While  its  branches  cast  their  leaves  — 
And  the  cold  wind  whispers  louder, 

Like  a  sobbing  breath  that  grieves  ; 
A  heart  that's  long  in  breaking, 

As  a  single  flower  may  cling, 
All  withered,  shorn,  and  quaking, 

On  the  naked  stalk  till  spring. 

Then  I  thought  —  "  That  tree  is  human, 
And  its  boughs  are  human  too  ; 


244  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

For  while  the  leaves  were  wealthy 
With  kindling  sap  and  dew — 

While  the  sun  shot  golden  lances 
Through  all  its  billowy  green, 

And  the  birds  poured  love  and  music 
Where  the  slanting  rays  had  been — 

"  Then  its  great  roots  gathered  fragrance, 

Like  wine-drops  from  the  ground, 
Till  it  sparkled  through  the  foliage, 

As  faith  fills  the  profound 
Of  souls  that  live  together 

In  kindred  trust  and  love, 
Till  their  union  seems  immortal 

As  the  burning  stars  above. 

"  But  the  very  dews  of  summer 

Had  left  their  own  decay ; 
And  Change,  a  ruthless  vampire, 

That  steals  the  soul  away, 
Came  with  the  mellow  autumn, 

And  touched  those  leaves  with  blight ; 
Then  the  frost  came  stealing  earthward, 

Like  a  ghost  upon  the  night. 

"  When  the  frost  had  done  its  death-work, 

When  the  golden  leaves  were  sear, 
And  the  brown  crept  dimly  on  them 

In  the  old  age  of  the  year, — 
Ah  !  the  roots  withdrew  their  nurture, 

While  the  tree  stood  firm  and  high ; 
When  the  leaves  had  lost  their  greenness, 

Lo,  it  cast  them  off  to  die  !" 


P  0  E.  245 

Then  I  thought,  "  Those  leaves  were  weary, 

And  thrilled  with  human  pain, 
As  they  fell  so  cold  and  dreary 

Beneath  the  beating  rain. 
While  the  boughs  waved  slow  and  grimly, 

And  shook  them  all  away — - 
Those  leaves  that  fell  so  dimly, 

Like  shadows  on  the  day  !" 

Then  my  soul  went  sadly  after, 

As  they  quivered  from  my  sight, 
And  it  followed  faster,  faster, 

As  my  hopes  had  taken  flight. 
So  I  watched  the  pale  leaves  flutter, 

Flutter  downward  from  the  stem; 
And  I  said,  "  The  cold  earth  under 

Is  enough  for  me  and  them." 


<£bgar  SUlan  Jloe. 

THE     RAVEN. 

upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak 

and  weary, 

Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  Suddenly  there  came  a 

tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber 

door. 
"  'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "  tapping  at  my  chamber 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 

12 


246  G  OLDEN   LEAVES. 

Ahj  distinctly  I  remember,  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the 

floor. 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow; — vainly  I  had  sought  to 

borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — sorrow  for  the  lost 

LENORE — 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

LENORE — 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And    the    silken    sad    uncertain    rustling    of    each    purple 

curtain 
Thrilled  me — filled  me  with   fantastic   terrors  never  felt 

before ; 
So   that  now,  to  still   the   beating  of  my  heart,  I   stood 

repeating, 
"'Tis   some   visitor    entreating  entrance   at  my   chamber 

door — 

Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door ; 
This  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

Presently    my    soul    grew    stronger ;    hesitating    then    no 

longer, 
"  Sir,"    said    I,    "  or    Madam,    truly    your   forgiveness    I 

implore ; 
But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came 

rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber 

door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you" — here  I  opened  wide 

the  door ; — 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 


P  0  E.  247 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood   there  won- 
dering, fearing, 

Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to  dream 
before ; 

But  the  silence  was   unbroken,  and  the  stillness   gave  no 
token, 

And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered  word, 
"LENORE  !" 

This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the  word, 
"  LENORE  !"— 

Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into   the   chamber   turning,  all  my  soul  within  me 

burning, 

Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping,  something  louder  than  before. 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something  at  my  window 

lattice ; 
Let    me    see,    then,  what    thereat    is  —  and    this    mystery 

explore, 

Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment,  and  this  mystery  explore — 
'Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt 

and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of 

yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;  not  a  minute  stopped  or 

stayed  he ; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber 

door — 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  PALLAS,  just  above  my  chamber 

door — 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 


248  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into   smi- 
ling, 

By  the  grave  and  stern   decorum  of  the  countenance  it 
wore, 

"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said, 
"  art  sure  no  craven, 

Ghastly,    grim,   and    ancient   Raven,  wandering   from    the 
Nightly  shore — 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plutonian 
shore!" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so 

plainly, 

Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy  bore ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blest  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber 

door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber 

door, 

With  such  name  as  "Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  that  placid  bust,  spoke 

only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did 

outpour. 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered;   not  a  feather  then  he 

fluttered — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered,  "  Other  friends  have 

flown  before — 
On  the  morrow  he,  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have  flown 

before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "Nevermore." 


P  0 E.  249 

Startled  at  the    stillness    broken    by  reply  so   aptly  spo- 
ken, 

"Doubtless,"  said  I,  "what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and 
store, 

Caught    from    some    unhappy    master,    whom    unmerciful 
Disaster 

Followed  fast  and  followed  faster,  till  his  songs  one  burden 
bore — 

Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore, 

Of  '  Never — nevermore  !'  " 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all   my  sad  soul    into  smi- 
ling, 

Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird,  and 
bust,  and  door  : 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  link- 
ing 

Fancy   unto   fancy,    thinking   what   this   ominous   bird  of 
yore — 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird 
of  yore, 

Meant  in  croaking  "Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl,  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's 

core ; 
This  and   more   I   sat    divining,   with    my   head   at   ease 

reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamplight  gloated 

o'er, 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamplight  gloating 

o'er 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore  ! 


250  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an 

unseen  censer 
Swung  by  Seraphim,  whose  foot-falls  tinkled  on  the  tufted 

floor. 
"  Wretch,"  I  cried,  "  thy  GOD  hath  lent  thee — by  these 

angels  He  hath  sent  thee 
Respite  —  respite    and    nepenthe    from    thy    memories    of 

LENORE ! 
Quaff,  oh,  quaff  this  kind   nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost 

LENORE !" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet !"  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil ! — prophet  still,  if  bird 

or  devil ! — 
Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee 

here  ashore, 

Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted — 
On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I  implore — 
Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ? — tell  me — tell  me,  I 

implore  !" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"  Prophet !"  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil  ! — prophet  still,  if  bird 

or  devil ! — 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  GOD  we 

both  adore — 
Tell   this  soul   with  sorrow  laden,  if,  within   the   distant 

Aidenn, 
It   shall   clasp   a   sainted   maiden   whom   the   angels   name 

LENORE — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

LENORE  ?" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 


POE.  251 

"Be   that  word   our   sign   of  parting,   bird   or   fiend!"   I 

shrieked,  upstarting — 
"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's  Plutonian 

shore ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath 

spoken  ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  ! — quit  the  bust  above  my 

door! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from 

off  my  door !" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting, 
On   the   pallid  bust  of  PALLAS,  just  above   my  chamber 

door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is 

dreaming, 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow 

on  the  floor ; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on 

the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore  ! 


ANNABEL     LEE. 

TT  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  lived,  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love,  and  be  loved  by  me. 


252  G  OLDEN  LEAVE  S. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea ; 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  ANNABEL  LEE — 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
So  that  her  high-born  kinsman  came, 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me. 
Yes !  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know), 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  the  wind  came  out.  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  ANNABEL  LEE, 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE. 

For  the  moon  never  beams  without  bringing  me  dreams 
Of  the  beautifal  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 


POE.  253 

And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE. 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling,  my  darling,  my  life,  and  my  bride, 

In  her  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


H1 


THE     BELLS. 
I. 

rEAR  the  sledges  with  the  bells — 

Silver  bells  ! 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells  ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight — 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

ii. 
Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells — 

Golden  bells ! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells  ! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight  ! 

12* 


254  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 

On  the  moon  ! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells ! 
How  it  swells ! 
How  it  dwells 

On  the  Future  !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells. 

in. 
Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells — 

Brazen  bells  ! 

What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  Night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 

In  the  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire., 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavour, 
Now — now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 


POE.  255 

Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  Despair  ! 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar  ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  Air ! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells ! 

IV. 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells — 

Iron  bells  ! 

What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels ! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone  ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 


256  G  OLDEN  LEAVE  S. 

And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human — • 

They  are  ghouls : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Rolls, 

A  paean  from  the  bells  ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells  ! 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  paean  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells- 
Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells ! 


MKS.    WHITMAN.  257 

Saral)  iijelcu  tDIjitman. 

THE      SLEEPING     BEAUTY: 


//  Pcnseroso. 

"  SISTER,  'tis  the  noon  of  night ! — 
Let  us,  in  the  web  of  thought, 
Weave  the  threads  of  ancient  song, 
From  the  realms  of  Fairies  brought. 

"  Thou  shalt  stain  the  dusky  warp 

In  nightshade  wet  with  twilight  dew ; 
I,  with  streaks  of  morning  gold, 

Will  strike  the  fabric  through  and  through."* 

V\7"HERE  a  lone  castle  by  the  sea 

Upreared  its  dark  and  mouldering  pile, 
Far  seen,  with  all  its  frowning  towers, 

For  many  and  many  a  weary  mile, 
The  wild  waves  beat  the  castle  walls, 

And  bathed  the  rock  with  ceaseless  showers ; 
The  winds  roared  fiercely  round  the  pile, 

And  moaned  along  its  mouldering  towers. 

Within  those  wide  and  echoing  halls, 

To  guard  her  from  a  fatal  spell, 
A  maid  of  noble  lineage  born 

Was  doomed  in  solitude  to  dwell. 
Five  fairies  graced  the  infant's  birth 

With  fame  and  beauty,  wealth  and  power; 
The  sixth,  by  one  fell  stroke,  reversed 

The  lavish  splendours  of  her  dower. 

*  This  is  a  joint  production  of  Mrs.  WHITMAN  and  her  sister,  Miss 
POWER. 


258  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Whene'er  the  orphan's  lily  hand 

A  spindle's  shining  point  should  pierce, 
She  swore,  upon  her  magic  wand, 

The  maid  should  sleep  a  hundred  years. 
The  wild  waves  beat  the  castle  wall, 

And  bathed  the  rock  with  ceaseless  showers ; 
Dark,  heaving  billows  plunge  and  fall 

In  whitening  foam  beneath  the  towers. 

There,  rocked  by  winds  and  lulled  by  waves, 

In  youthful  grace  the  maiden  grew, 
And  from  her  solitary  dreams 

A  sweet  and  pensive  pleasure  drew. 
Yet  often,  from  her  lattice  high, 

She  gazed  athwart  the  gathering  night, 
To  mark  the  sea-gulls  wheeling  by, 

And  longed  to  follow  in  their  flight. 

One  winter  night,  beside  the  hearth 

She  sat  and  watched  the  smouldering  fire, 
While  now  the  tempests  seemed  to  lull, 

And  now  the  winds  rose  high  and  higher ; 
Strange  sounds  are  heard  along  the  wall, 

Dim  faces  glimmer  through  the  gloom, 
And  still  mysterious  voices  call, 

And  shadows  flit  from  room  to  room — 

Till,  bending  o'er  the  dying  brands, 
She  chanced  a  sudden  gleam  to  see  : 

She  turned  the  sparkling  embers  o'er, 
And  lo  !  she  finds  a  golden  key  ! 

Lured  on,  as  by  an  unseen  hand, 

She  roamed  the  castle  o'er  and  o'er — 


MRS.     WHITMAN.  259 

Through  many  a  darkling  chamber  sped,, 
And  many  a  dusky  corridor : 

And  still,  through  unknown,  winding  ways, 

She  wandered  on  for  many  an  hour, 
For  gallery  still  to  gallery  leads, 

And  tower  succeeds  to  tower. 
Oft,  wearied  with  the  steep  ascent, 

She  lingered  on  her  lonely  way, 
And  paused  beside  the  pictured  walls, 

Their  countless  wonders  to  survey. 

At  length,  upon  a  narrow  stair 

That  wound  within  a  turret  high, 
She  saw  a  little  low-browed  door, 

And  turned,  her  golden  key  to  try  : 
Slowly,  beneath  her  trembling  hand, 

The  bolts  recede,  and,  backward  flung, 
With  harsh  recoil  and  sullen  clang 

The  door  upon  its  hinges  swung. 

There,  in  a  little  moonlit  room, 

She  sees  a  weird  and  withered  crone, 
Who  sat  and  spun  amid  the  gloom, 

And  turned  her  wheel  with  drowsy  drone. 
With  mute  amaze  and  wondering  awe, 

A  passing  moment  stood  the  maid, 
Then,  entering  at  the  narrow  door, 

More  near  the  mystic  task  surveyed. 

She  saw  her  twine  the  flaxen  fleece, 

She  saw  her  draw  the  flaxen  thread, 
She  viewed  the  spindle's  shining  point, 

And,  pleased,  the  novel  task  surveyed. 


260  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

A  sudden  longing  seized  her  breast 

To  twine  the  fleece,  to  turn  the  wheel : 

She  stretched  her  lily  hand,  and  pierced 
Her  finger  with  the  shining  steel ! 

Slowly  her  heavy  eyelids  close ; 

She  feels  a  drowsy  torpor  creep 
From  limb  to  limb,  till  every  sense 

Is  locked  in  an  enchanted  sleep. 
A  dreamless  slumber,  deep  as  night, 

In  deathly  trance  her  senses  locked ; 
At  once  through  all  its  massive  vaults 

And  gloomy  towers  the  castle  rocked. 

The  beldame  roused  her  from  her  lair, 

And  raised  on  high  a  mournful  wail — 
A  shrilly  scream  that  seemed  to  float 

A  requiem  on  the  dying  gale. 
"  A  hundred  years  shall  pass,"  she  said, 

"  Ere  those  blue  eyes  behold  the  morn, 
Ere  these  deserted  halls  and  towers 

Shall  echo  to  a  bugle-horn. 

"  A  hundred  Norland  winters  pass, 

While  drenching  rains  and  drifting  snows 
Shall  beat  against  the  castle  walls, 

Nor  wake  thee  from  thy  long  repose. 
A  hundred  times  the  golden  grain 

Shall  wave  beneath  the  harvest  moon, 
Twelve  hundred  moons  shall  wax  and  wane 

Ere  yet  thine  eyes  behold  the  sun  !" 

She  ceased  :   but  still  the  mystic  rhyme 
The  long-resounding  aisles  prolong, 


MKS.     WHITMAN.  261 

And  all  the  castle's  echoes  chime 

In  answering  cadence  to  her  song. 
She  bore  the  maiden  to  her  bower, 

An  ancient  chamber  wide  and  low, 
Where  golden  sconces  from  the  wall 

A  faint  and  trembling  lustre  throw ; — 

A  silent  chamber,  far  apart, 

Where  strange  and  antique  arras  hung, 
That  waved  along  the  mouldering  walls, 

And  in  the  gusty  night-wind  swung. 
She  laid  her  on  her  ivory  bed, 

And  gently  smoothed  each  snowy  limb, 
Then  drew  the  curtain's  dusky  fold 

To  make  the  entering  daylight  dim. 

PART    II, 

AND  all  around,  on  every  side, 
Throughout  the  castle's  precincts  wide, 

In  every  bower  and  hall, 
All  slept :   the  warder  in  the  court, 
The  figures  on  the  arras  wrought, 

The  steed  within  his  stall. 

No  more  the  watch-dog  bayed  the  moon, 
The  owlet  ceased  her  boding  tune, 

The  raven  on  his  tower ; 
All  hushed  in  slumber  still  and  deep, 
Enthralled  in  an  enchanted  sleep, 

Await  the  appointed  hour. 

A  pathless  forest,  wild  and  wide, 
Engirt  the  castle's  inland  side, 

And  stretched  for  many  a  mile  ; 


262  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

So  thick  its  deep,  impervious  screen, 
The  castle  towers  were  dimly  seen 
Above  the  mouldering  pile. 

So  high  the  ancient  cedars  sprung, 
So  far  aloft  their  branches  flung, 

So  close  the  covert  grew, 
No  foot  its  silence  could  invade, 
No  eye  could  pierce  its  depths  of  shade, 

Or  see  the  welkin  through. 

Yet  oft,  as  from  some  distant  mound 
The  traveller  cast  his  eyes  around, 

O'er  wold  and  woodland  gray, 
He  saw,  athwart  the  glimmering  light 
Of  moonbeams,  on  a  misty  night, 

A  castle  far  away. 

A  hundred  Norland  winters  passed, 

While  drenching  rains  and  drifting  snows 
Beat  loud  against  the  castle  walls, 

Nor  broke  the  maiden's  long  repose. 
A  hundred  times  on  vale  and  hill 

The  reapers  bound  the  golden  corn — 
And  now  the  ancient  halls  and  towers 

Re-echo  to  a  bugle-horn  ! 

A  warrior  from  a  distant  land, 

With  helm  and  hauberk,  spear  and  brand, 

And  high,  untarnished  crest, 
By  visions  of  enchantment  led, 
Hath  vowed,  before  the  morning's  red, 

To  break  her  charmed  rest. 


MRS.    WHITMAN.  263 

From  torrid  clime  beyond  the  main 
He  comes  the  costly  prize  to  gain, 

O'er  deserts  waste  and  wide. 
No  dangers  daunt,  no  toils  can  tire ; 
With  throbbing  heart  and  soul  on  fire 

He  seeks  his  sleeping  bride. 

He  gains  the  old,  enchanted  wood, 
Where  never  mortal  footsteps  trod — 

He  pierced  its  tangled  gloom ; 
A  chillness  loads  the  lurid  air, 
Where  baleful  swamp-fires  gleam  and  glare, 

His  pathway  to  illume. 

Well  might  the  warrior's  courage  fail, 
Well  might  his  lofty  spirit  quail, 

On  that  enchanted  ground ; 
No  open  foeman  meets  him  there, 
But,  borne  upon  the  murky  air, 

Strange  horror  broods  around  ! 

At  every  turn  his  footsteps  sank 
Mid  tangled  boughs  and  mosses  dank, 

For  long  and  weary  hours — 
Till,  issuing  from  the  dangerous  wood, 
The  castle  full  before  him  stood, 

With  all  its  flanking  towers ! 

The  moon  a  paly  lustre  sheds ; 

Resolved,  the  grass-grown  court  he  treads, 

The  gloomy  portal  gained — 
He  crossed  the  threshold's  magic  bound, 
He  paced  the  hall,  where  all  around 

A  deathly  silence  reigned. 


264  G  OLDEN  LEAVE  S. 

No  fears  his  venturous  course  could  stay- 
Darkling  he  groped  his  dreary  way — 

Up  the  wide  staircase  sprang. 
It  echoed  to  his  mailed  heel ; 
With  clang  of  arms  and  clash  of  steel 

The  silent  chambers  rang. 

He  sees  a  glimmering  taper  gleam 

Far  off,  with  faint  and  trembling  beam, 

Athwart  the  midnight  gloom : 
Then  first  he  felt  the  touch  of  fear, 
As,  with  slow  footsteps  drawing  near, 

He  gained  the  lighted  room. 

And  now  the  waning  moon  was  low, 
The  perfumed  tapers  faintly  glow, 

And,  by  their  dying  gleam, 
He  raised  the  curtain's  dusky  fold, 
And  lo  !   his  charmed  eyes  behold 

The  lady  of  his  dream  ! 

As  violets  peep  from  wintry  snows, 
Slowly  her  heavy  lids  unclose, 

And  gently  heaves  her  breast ; 
But  all  unconscious  was  her  gaze, 
Her  eye  with  listless  languor  strays 

From  brand  to  plumy  crest : 

A  rising  blush  begins  to  dawn, 
Like  that  which  steals  at  early  morn 

Across  the  eastern  sky ; 
And  slowly,  as  the  morning  broke, 
The  maiden  from  her  trance  awoke 

Beneath  his  ardent  eye  ! 


MRS.    WHITMAN.  265 

As  the  first  kindling  sunbeams  threw 
Their  level  light  athwart  the  dew, 

And  tipped  the  hills  with  flame, 
The  silent  forest-boughs  were  stirred 
With  music,  as  from  bee  and  bird 

A  mingling  murmur  came. 

From  out  its  depths  of  tangled  gloom. 
There  came  a  breath  of  dewy  bloom, 

And  from  the  valleys  dim 
A  cloud  of  fragrant  incense  stole, 
As  if  each  violet  breathed  its  soul 

Into  that  floral  hymn. 

Loud  neighed  the  steed  within  his  stall, 
The  cock  crowed  on  the  castle  wall, 

The  warder  wound  his  horn ; 
The  linnet  sang  in  leafy  bower, 
The  swallows,  twittering  from  the  tower, 

Salute  the  rosy  morn. 

But  fresher  than  the  rosy  morn, 
And  blither  than  the  bugle-horn, 

The  maiden's  heart  doth  prove, 
Who,  as  her  beaming  eyes  awake, 
Beholds  a  double  morning  break — 

The  dawn  of  light  and  love ! 


266  G  OLDEN  LEA  VE S. 

Jonathan  Caturcnce. 

LOOK     ALOFT. 

TN  the  tempest  of  life,  when  the  wave  and  the  gale 
Are  around  and  above,  if  thy  footing  should  fail, 
If  thine  eye  should  grow  dim,  and  thy  caution  depart, 
"  Look  aloft,"  and  be  firm,  and  be  fearless  of  heart. 

If  the  friend,  who  embraced  in  prosperity's  glow, 
With  a  smile  for  each  joy  and  a  tear  for  each  woe, 
Should  betray  thee  when  sorrows  like  clouds  are  arrayed, 
"  Look  aloft"  to  the  friendship  which  never  shall  fade. 

Should  the  visions  which  Hope  spreads  in  light  to  thine 

eye, 

Like  the  tints  of  the  rainbow,  but  brighten  to  fly, 
Then  turn,  and  through  tears  of  repentant  regret, 
"  Look  aloft"  to  the  Sun  that  is  never  to  set. 

Should  they  who  are  dearest,  the  son  of  thy  heart, 
The  wife  of  thy  bosom,  in  sorrow  depart, 
"  Look  aloft"  from  the  darkness  and  dust  of  the  tomb, 
To  that  soil  where  "affection  is  ever  in  bloom." 

And  oh,  when  Death  comes  in  his  terrors,  to  cast 
His  fears  on  the  future,  his  pall  on  the  past, 
In  that  moment  of  darkness,  with  hope  in  thy  heart, 
And  a  smile  in  thine  eye,  "  look  aloft,"  and  depart ! 


PR-ENTICE.  267 

©corge  JD.  JJrentice. 

SABBATH      EVENING. 

TTOW  calmly  sinks  the  parting  sun  ! 
•*•  *•     Yet  twilight  lingers  still ; 
And,  beautiful  as  dream  of  heaven, 

It  slumbers  on  the  hill ; 
Earth  sleeps,  with  all  her  glorious  things, 
Beneath  the  Holy  Spirit's  wings, 
And,  rendering  back  the  hues  above, 
Seems  resting  in  a  trance  of  love. 

Round  yonder  rocks  the  forest-trees 

In  shadowy  groups  recline, 
Like  saints  at  evening  bowed  in  prayer 

Around  their  holy  shrine ; 
And  through  their  leaves  the  night-winds  blow 
So  calm  and  still,  their  music  low 
Seems  the  mysterious  voice  of  prayer, 
Soft  echoed  on  the  evening  air. 

And  yonder  western  throng  of  clouds, 

Retiring  from  the  sky, 
So  calmly  move,  so  softly  glow, 

They  seem  to  Fancy's  eye 
Bright  creatures  of  a  better  sphere, 
Come  down  at  noon  to  worship  here, 
And,  from  their  sacrifice  of  love, 
Returning  to  their  home  above. 

The  blue  isles  of  the  golden  sea, 
The  night-arch  floating  by, 


268  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

The  flowers  that  gaze  upon  the  heavens, 

The  bright  streams  leaping  by, 
Are  living  with  religion — deep 
On  earth  and  sea  its  glories  sleep, 
And  mingle  with  the  starlight  rays, 
Like  the  soft  light  of  parted  days. 

The  spirit  of  the  holy  eve 

Comes  through  the  silent  air 
To  Feeling's  hidden  spring,  and  wakes 

A  gush  of  music  there  ! 
And  the  far  depths  of  ether  beam 
So  passing  fair,  we  almost  dream 
That  we  can  rise,  and  wander  through 
Their  open  paths  of  trackless  blue. 

Each  soul  is  filled  with  glorious  dreams, 

Each  pulse  is  beating  wild ; 
And  Thought  is  soaring  to  the  shrine 

Of  Glory  undefiled  ! 
And  holy  aspirations  start, 
Like  blessed  angels,  from  the  heart, 
And  bind — for  earth's  dark  ties  are  riven- 
Our  spirits  to  the  gates  of  heaven. 


THE     DEAD     MARINER. 

OLEEP  on,  sleep  on  !  above  thy  corse 
^     The  winds  their  Sabbath  keep ; 
The  waves  are  round  thee,  and  thy  breast 
Heaves  with  the  heaving  deep. 


PRENTICE. 

O'er  thee  mild  Eve  her  beauty  flings, 
And  there  the  white  gull  lifts  her  wings. 
And  the  blue  halcyon  loves  to  lave 
Her  plumage  in  the  deep  blue  wave. 

Sleep  on ;  no  willow  o'er  thee  bends 

With  melancholy  air — 
No  violet  springs,  nor  dewy  rose 

Its  soul  of  love  lays  bare ; 
But  there  the  sea- flower,  bright  and  young, 
Is  sweetly  o'er  thy  slumbers  flung, 
And,  like  a  weeping  mourner  fair, 
The  pale  flag  hangs  its  tresses  there. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on ;  the  glittering  depths 

Of  ocean's  coral  caves 
Are  thy  bright  urn — thy  requiem 

The  music  of  its  waves ; 
The  purple  gems  forever  burn 
In  fadeless  beauty  round  thy  urn, 
And,  pure  and  deep  as  infant  love, 
The  blue  sea  rolls  its  waves  above. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on ;   the  fearful  wrath 

Of  mingling  cloud  and  deep 
May  leave  its  wild  and  stormy  track 

Above  thy  place  of  sleep ; 
But  when  the  wave  has  sunk  to  rest, 
As  now,  'twill  murmur  o'er  thy  breast, 
And  the  bright  victims  of  the  sea 
Perchance  will  make  their  home  with  thee. 

Sleep  on ;  thy  corse  is  far  away, 
But  love  bewails  thee  yet ; 
13 


270  GOLDEN  LEAVES 

For  thee  the  heart-wrung  sigh  is  breathed, 

And  lovely  eyes  are  wet : 
And  she,  thy  young  and  beauteous  bride, 
Her  thoughts  are  hovering  by  thy  side, 
As  oft  she  turns  to  view,  with  tears, 
The  Eden  of  departed  years. 


Sargent  ©0goob. 

THE    COCOA-NUT    TREE. 

,  the  green  and  the  graceful — the  cocoa-nut  tree  ! 
The  lone  and  the  lofty — it  loves,  like  me, 
The  flash,  the  foam  of  the  heaving  sea, 
And  the  sound  of  the  surging  waves 
In  the  shore's  unfathomed  caves : 
With  its  stately  shaft  and  its  verdant  crown, 
And  its  fruit  in  clusters  drooping  down — 
Some  of  a  soft  and  tender  green, 
And  some  all  ripe  and  brown  between, 
And  flowers,  too,  blending  their  lovelier  grace 
Like  a  blush  through  the  tresses  on  Beauty's  face. 
Oh,  the  lovely,  the  free, 
The  cocoa-nut  tree, 
Is  the  tree  of  all  trees  for  me  ! 

The  willow,  it  waves  with  a  tenderer  motion, 
The  oak  and  the  elm  with  more  majesty  rise ; 

But  give  me  the  cocoa,  that  loves  the  wild  ocean, 
And  shadows  the  hut  where  the  island-girl  lies. 


MRS.    OS  GOOD.  271 

In  the  Nicobar  Islands,  each  cottage  you  see 

Is  built  of  the  trunk  of  the  cocoa-nut  tree, 

While  its  leaves,  matted  thickly  and  many  times  o'er, 

Make  a  thatch  for  its  roof  and  a  mat  for  its  floor ; 

Its  shells  the  dark  islander's  beverage  hold  — 

'Tis  a  goblet  as  pure  as  a  goblet  of  gold. 

Oh,  the  cocoa-nut  tree, 

That  blooms  by  the  sea, 
Is  the  tree  of  all  trees  for  me  ! 

In  the  Nicobar  Isles,  of  the  cocoa-nut  tree 
They  build  the  light  shallop — the  wild,  the  free ; 
They  weave  of  its  fibres  so  firm  a  sail, 
It  will  weather  the  rudest  southern  gale ; 
They  fill  it  with  oil,  and  with  coarse  jaggherry — 
With  arrack  and  coir,  from  the  cocoa-nut  tree. 
The  lone,  the  free, 

That  dwells  in  the  roar 

Of  the  echoing  shore — 
Oh,  the  cocoa-nut  tree  for  me  ! 

Rich  is  the  cocoa-nut's  milk  and  meat, 
And  its  wine,  the  pure  palm-wine,  is  sweet ; 
It  is  like  the  bright  spirits  we  sometimes  meet — 

The  wine  of  the  cocoa-nut  tree ; 
For  they  tie  up  the  embryo  bud's  soft  wing, 
From  which  the  blossoms  and  nuts  would  spring ; 
And  thus,  forbidden  to  bless  with  bloom 
Its  native  air,  and  with  soft  perfume, 
The  subtile  spirit  that  struggles  there 
Distils  an  essence  more  rich  and  rare — 
And  instead  of  a  blossom  and  fruitage  birth, 
The  delicate  palm-wine  oozes  forth. 


272  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

Ah,  thus  to  the  child  of  genius,  too, 
The  rose  of  beauty  is  oft  denied ; 
But  all  the  richer,  that  high  heart  through, 

The  torrent  of  feeling  pours  its  tide  j 
And  purer  and  fonder,  and  far  more  true, 
Is  that  passionate  soul  in  its  lonely  pride. 
Oh,  the  fresh,  the  free, 
The  cocoa-nut  tree, 
Is  the  tree  of  all  trees  for  me  ! 

The  glowing  sky  of  the  Indian  isles 

Lovingly  over  the  cocoa-nut  smiles, 

And  the  Indian  maiden  lies  below, 

Where  its  leaves  their  graceful  shadow  throw : 

She  weaves  a  wreath  of  the  rosy  shells 

That  gem  the  beach  where  the  cocoa  dwells ; 

She  binds  them  into  her  long  black  hair, 

And  they  blush  in  the  braids  like  rosebuds  there ; 

Her  soft  brown  arm,  and  her  graceful  neck, 

With  those  ocean-blooms  she  joys  to  deck. 

Oh,  wherever  you  see 

The  cocoa-nut  tree, 
There  will  a  picture  of  beauty  be  ! 


THE     BROOK. 


64  TX7HITHER  away,  thou  merry  Brook, 

Whither  away  so  fast, 

With  dainty  feet  through  the  meadow  green, 
And  a  smile  as  you  hurry  past  ?" 


MBS.    OAKES-SMITH.  273 

The  Brook  leaped  on  in  idle  mirth, 

And  dimpled  with  saucy  glee ; 
The  daisy  kissed  in  lovingness, 

And  made  with  the  willow  free. 

I  heard  its  laugh  adown  the  glen, 

And  over  the  rocky  steep, 
Away  where  the  old  tree's  roots  were  bare 

In  the  waters  dark  and  deep ; 
The  sunshine  flashed  upon  its  face, 

And  played  with  flickering  leaf — 
Well  pleased  to  dally  in  its  path, 

Though  the  tarrying  were  brief. 

"  Now  stay  thy  feet,  O  restless  one, 

Where  droops  the  spreading  tree, 
And  let  thy  liquid  voice  reveal 

Thy  story  unto  me." 
The  flashing  pebbles  lightly  rang, 

As  the  gushing  music  fell — 
The  chiming  music  of  the  Brook, 

From  out  the  woody  dell : 

"  My  mountain  home  was  bleak  and  high, 

A  rugged  spot  and  drear, 
With  searching  wind  and  raging  storm, 

And  moonlight  cold  and  clear. 
I  longed  for  a  greeting  cheery  as  mine, 

For  a  fond  and  answering  look ; 
But  none  were  in  that  solitude 

To  bless  the  little  Brook. 

"  The  blended  hum  of  pleasant  sounds 
Came  up  from  the  vale  below, 


274  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

And  I  wished  that  mine  were  a  lowly  lot, 

To  laugh,  and  sing  as  I  go ; 
That  gentle  things,  with  loving  eyes, 

Along  my  path  should  glide, 
And  blossoms  in  their  loveliness 

Come  nestling  to  my  side. 

"  I  leaped  me  down  :  my  rainbow  robe 

Hung  shivering  to  the  sight, 
And  the  thrill  of  freedom  gave  to  me 

New  impulse  of  delight. 
A  joyous  welcome  the  sunshine  gave, 

The  bird  and  the  swaying  tree ; 
The  spear-like  grass  and  blossom  start 

With  joy  at  sight  of  me. 

"  The  swallow  comes  with  its  bit  of  clay, 

When  the  busy  Spring  is  here, 
And  twittering  bears  the  moistened  gift 

A  nest  on  the  eaves  to  rear; 
The  twinkling  feet  of  flock  and  herd 

Have  trodden  a  path  to  me, 
And  the  fox  and  the  squirrel  come  to  drink 

In  the  shade  of  the  alder-tree. 

"  The  sunburnt  child,  with  its  rounded  foot, 

Comes  hither  with  me  to  play, 
And  I  feel  the  thrill  of  its  lightsome  heart 

As  he  dashes  the  merry  spray. 
I  turn  the  mill  with  answering  glee, 

As  the  merry  spokes  go  round ; 
And  the  gray  rock  takes  the  echo  up, 

Rejoicing  in  the  sound. 


MRS.    RITCHIE.  275 

"  The  old  man  bathes  his  scattered  locks, 

And  drops  me  a  silent  tear — 
For  he  sees  a  wrinkled,  careworn  face 

Look  up  from  the  waters  clear. 
Then  I  sing  in  his  ear  the  very  song 

He  heard  in  years  gone  by ; 
The  old  man's  heart  is  glad  again, 

And  a  joy  lights  up  his  eye." 

Enough,  enough,  thou  homily  Brook ! 

I'll  treasure  thy  teachings  well, 
And  I  will  yield  a  heartfelt  tear 

Thy  crystal  drops  to  swell ; 
Will  bear,  like  thee,  a  kindly  love 

For  the  lowly  things  of  earth, 
Remembering  still  that  high  and  pure 

Is  the  home  of  the  spirit's  birth. 


5lnna  (fora  ftlowatt  (ttttcl)te). 

TIME. 

AY,  'rail  not  at  Time,  though  a  tyrant  he  be, 

And  say  not  he  cometh,  colossal  in  might, 
Our  beauty  to  ravish,  put  Pleasure  to  flight, 

And  pluck  away  friends,  e'en  as  leaves  from  the  tree ; 
And  say  not  Love's  torch,  which  like  VESTA'S  should  burn, 
The  cold  breath  of  Time  soon  to  ashes  will  turn. 

You  call  Time  a  robber  ?     Nay,  he  is  not  so  : 
While  Beauty's  fair  temple  he  rudely  despoils, 
The  mind  to  enrich  with  its  plunder  he  toils ; 

And,  sowed  in  his  furrows,  doth  wisdom  not  grow  ? 


N 


276  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

The  magnet  mid  stars  points  the  north  still  to  view; 
So  Time,  'mong  our  friends,  e'er  discloses  the  true. 

Though  cares  then  should  gather,  as  pleasures  flee  by, 
Though  Time  from  thy  features  the  charm  steal  away, 
He'll  dim  too  mine  eye,  lest  it  see  them  decay ; 

And  sorrows  we've  shared  will  knit  closer  Love's  tie : 
Then  I'll  laugh  at  old  Time,  and  at  all  he  can  do — 
For  he'll  rob  me  in  vain,  if  he  leave  me  but  you  ! 


TT7HOSE  the  eyes  thou  erst  didst  shade, 
Down  what  bosom  hast  thou  rolled  ? 
O'er  what  cheek  unchidden  played, 

Tress  of  mingled  brown  and  gold  ! 
Round  what  brow,  say,  didst  thou  twine  ? 
Angel-mother,  it  was  thine  ! 

Cold  the  brow  that  wore  this  braid, 
Pale  the  cheek  this  bright  lock  pressed, 

Dim  the  eyes  it  loved  to  shade, 
Still  the  ever-gentle  breast — 

All  that  bosom's  struggles  past, 

When  it  held  this  ringlet  last. 

In  that  happy  home  above, 

Where  all  perfect  joy  hath  birth, 

Thou  dispensest  good  and  love, 
Mother,  as  thou  didst  on  earth ; 

And,  though  distant  seems  that  sphere, 

Still  I  feel  thee  ever  near. 


LONGFELLOW.  277 

Though  my  longing  eye  now  views 

Thy  angelic  mien  no  more, 
Still  thy  spirit  can  infuse 

Good  in  mine,  unknown  before. 
Still  the  voice,  from  childhood  dear, 
Steals  upon  my  raptured  ear — 

Chiding  every  wayward  deed, 

Fondly  praising  every  just ; 
Whispering  soft,  when  strength  I  need, 

"Loved  one,  place  in  GOD  thy  trust !" 
Oh,  'tis  more  than  joy  to  feel 
Thou  art  watching  o'er  my  weal  ! 


Congfeltou). 

THE     ARSENAL     AT     SPRINGFIELD. 

'TpHIS  is  the  Arsenal.     From  floor  to  ceiling. 

•*•       Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished  arms , 
But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  pealing 
Startles  the  villagers  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah  !  what  a  sound  will  rise — how  wild  and  dreary- 
When  the  death-angel  touches  those  swift  keys ! 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies ! 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus — 
The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 

Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before  us, 
In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 


278  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer ; 

Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norseman's  song ; 
And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 

O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 

I  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful  din  ; 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 

Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  serpents'  skin ; 

The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning  village ; 

The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy  drowns ; 
The  soldiers'  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage ; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns ; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched  asunder, 
The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade — 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder, 
The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

Is  it,  O  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 

Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly  voices, 
And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies  ? 

Were  half  the  power  that  fills  the  world  with  terror, 
Were  half  the  wealth  bestowed  on  camps  and  courts, 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  nor  forts ; 

The  warrior's  name  would  be  a  name  abhorred ; 

And  every  nation  that  should  lift  again 
Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 

Would  wear  for  evermore  the  curse  of  CAIN  ! 


LONGFELLOW.  279 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  generations, 
The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and  then  cease ; 

And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 

I  hear  once  more  the  voice  of  CHRIST  say,  "  Peace  !" 

Peace  ! — and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 
The  blast  of  War's  great  organ  shakes  the  skies ; 

But,  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 


A     PSALM     OF     LIFE. 

'"T^ELL  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

•**     "  Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  !" 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !   life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
"  Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest," 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 


280  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead  ! 
Act — act  in  the  living  present ! 

Heart  within,  and  GOD  o'erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 

We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 
And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 

Footprints  on  the  sands  of  Time- 
Footprints  that  perhaps  another, 

Sailing  o'er  Life's  solemn  main 
A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labour  and  to  wait. 


FOOTSTEPS     OF     ANGELb. 

T  T  THEN  the  hours  of  day  are  numbered, 

And  the  voices  of  the  night 
Wake  the  better  soul  that  slumbered 
To  a  holy,  calm  delight — 


LONGFELLOW. 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  firelight 
Dance  upon  the  parlour  wall ; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door — 
The  beloved  ones,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more ; 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 

By  the  road-side  fell  and  perished, 
Weary  with  the  n?  arch  of  life ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly, 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more  ! 

And  with  them  the  being  beauteous 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine  ; 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 

With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 


282  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 
Is  the  Spirit's  voiceless  prayer — 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

Oh,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 
All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 

If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died  ! 


EXCELSIOR. 

'  I  ^HE  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
•*•     As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device — 
"  Excelsior !" 

His  brow  was  sad ;  his  eye  beneath 
Flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath ; 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue — 
"  Excelsior  !" 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan — 
"Excelsior!" 

"  Try  not  the  pass !"  the  old  man  said  : 
"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead ; 


LONGFELLOW.  283 

The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide  !" 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
"  Excelsior !" 

"  O  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  "  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast !" 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a  sigh, 
"  Excelsior !" 

"  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch  ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  !" 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  good-night ; 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
"  Excelsior !" 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried,  through  the  startled  air, 
"Excelsior  !" 

A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
"Excelsior!" 

There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 
And  from  the  sty,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star — 
"  Excelsior  !" 


284  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 


PAUL   REVERE'S   RIDE. 

ISTEN,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 
—     Of  the  midnight  ride  of  PAUL  REVERE, 
On  the  eighteenth  of  April  in  'Seventy-Five  : 
Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 
Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,  "  If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry-arch 
Of  the  North-Church  tower  as  a  signal-light, — 
One  if  by  land,  and  two  if  by  sea ; 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, 
For  the  country-folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 

Then  he  said  good-night,  and,  with  muffled  oar, 

Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 

Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 

Where,  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings,  lay 

The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war : 

A  phantom-ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 

Across  the  moon,  like  a  prison-bar, 

And  a  huge,  black  hulk,  that  was  magnified 

By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street, 
Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack-door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 


LONGFELLOW.  285 

And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed  to  the  tower  of  the  church, 
Up  the  wooden  stairs  with  stealthy  tread, 
To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, 
And  started  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 
On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made 
Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade, — 
Up  the  light  ladder,  slender  and  tall, 
To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 
Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 
A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town, 
And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead 
In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 
Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still, 
That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread, 
The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 
Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 
And  seeming  to  whisper,  "All  is  well  !" 
A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 
Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  the  secret  dread 
Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead ; 
For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 
On  a  shadowy  something  far  away, 
Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay, — 
A  line  of  black,  that  bends  and  floats 
On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride, 


286  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

On  the  opposite  shore  walked  PAUL  REVERE. 

Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 

Now  gazed  on  the  landscape  far  and  near, 

Then  impetuous  stamped  the  earth, 

And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth ; 

But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 

The  belfry-tower  of  the  old  North  Church, 

As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 

Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 

And  lo  !  as  he  looks  on  the  belfry's  height, 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light ! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns. 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark, 

And  beneath  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark, 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  that  flies  fearless  and  fleet : 

That  was  all !  and  yet,  through  the  gloom  and  the  light, 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night : 

And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in  his  flight, 

Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village-clock, 

When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford  town. 

He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 

And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog, 

And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river-fog, 

That  rises  when  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village-clock, 
When  he  rode  into  Lexington. 


LONGFELLOW.  287 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 

Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 

And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and  bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 

As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 

At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village-clock, 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 

And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 

And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 

Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 

And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 

Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall, 

Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 

Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball. 

You  know  the  rest.      In  the  books  you  have  read 
How  the  British  regulars  fired  and  fled, — 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farmyard  wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
When  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  PAUL  REVERE  ; 

And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, — 

A  cry  of  defiance,  and  not  of  fear, — 

A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 

And  a  word  that  shall  echo  for  evermore  ! 


288  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  past, 
Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 
In  the  hour  of  darkness,  and  peril,  and  need, 
The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 
The  hurrying  hoof-beat  of  that  steed, 
And  the  midnight  message  of  PAUL  REVERE. 


RAIN     IN     SUMM  ER. 

T  TOW  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 
After  the  dust  and  heat 
In  the  broad  and  fiery  street, 
In  the  narrow  lane, — 
How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

How  it  clatters  along  the  roofs, 

Like  the  tramp  of  hoofs ! 

How  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 

From  the  throat  of  the  overflowing  spout ! 

Across  the  window-pane 

It  pours  and  pours ; 

And  swift  and  wide, 

With  a  muddy  tide, 

Like  a  river,  down  the  gutter  roars 

The  rain,  the  welcome  rain ! 

The  sick  man  from  his  chamber  looks 
At  the  twisted  brooks ; 
He  can  feel  the  cool 
Breath  of  each  little  pool ; 
His  fevered  brain 


LONGFELLOW.  289 

Grows  calm  again, 

And  he  breathes  a  blessing  on  the  rain. 

From  the  neighbouring  school 

Come  the  boys, 

With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 

And  commotion ; 

And  down  the  wet  streets 

Sail  their  mimic  fleets, 

Till  the  treacherous  pool 

Ingulfs  them  in  its  whirling 

And  turbulent  ocean. 

In  the  country,  on  every  side, 

Where,  far  and  wide, 

Like  a  leopard's  tawny  and  spotted  hide, 

Stretches  the  plain, 

To  the  dry  grass  and  the  drier  grain 

How  welcome  is  the  rain ! 

In  the  furrowed  land 

The  toilsome  and  patient  oxen  stand ; 

Lifting  the  yoke-encumbered  head, 

With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread, 

They  silently  inhale 

The  clover-scented  gale, 

And  the  vapours  that  arise 

From  the  well-watered  and  smoking  soil ; 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 

Their  large  and  lustrous  eyes 

Seem  to  thank  the  LORD, 

More  than  man's  spoken  word. 


290  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Near  at  hand, 

From  under  the  sheltering  trees. 

The  farmer  sees 

His  pastures  and  his  fields  of  grain, 

As  they  bend  their  tops 

To  the  numberless  beating  drops 

Of  the  incessant  rain. 

He  counts  it  as  no  sin 

That  he  sees  therein 

Only  his  own  thrift  and  gain. 

These,  and  far  more  than  these, 

The  Poet  sees ! 

He  can  behold 

AQUARIUS  old 

Walking  the  fenceless  fields  of  air  • 

And  from  each  ample  fold 

Of  the  clouds  about  him  rolled 

Scattering  everywhere 

The  showery  rain, 

As  the  farmer  scatters  his  grain. 

He  can  behold 

Things  manifold 

That  have  not  yet  been  wholly  told, 

Have  not  been  wholly  sung  nor  said. 

For  his  thought,  that  never  stops, 

Follows  the  water-drops 

Down  to  the  graves  of  the  dead, 

Down  through  chasms  and  gulfs  profound, 

To  the  dreary  fountain-head 

Of  lakes  and  rivers  under  ground ; 

And  sees  them,  when  the  rain  is  done, 


LONGFELLOW.  291 


On  the  bridge  of  colours  seven 
Climbing  up  once  more  to  heaven, 
Opposite  the  setting  sun. 

Thus  the  Seer, 

With  vision  clear, 

Sees  forms  appear  and  disappear, 

In  the  perpetual  round  of  strange, 

Mysterious  change 

From  birth  to  death,  from  death  to  birth, 

From  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth ; 

Till  glimpses  more  sublime 

Of  things  unseen  before, 

Unto  his  wondering  eyes  reveal 

The  Universe,  as  an  immeasurable  wheel 

Turning  for  evermore 

In  the  rapid  and  rushing  river  of  Time  ! 


THE     VILLAGE     BLACKSMITH. 

T  TNDER  a  spreading  chestnut-tree 
^      The  village  smithy  stands ; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands ; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan ; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 


292  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 
Look  in  at  the  open  door ; 

They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 
And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 

And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 
Like  chaff  from  a  threshing-floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys ; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise  ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies ; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, 
Onward  through  life  he  goes ; 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 
Each  evening  sees  it  close ; 

Something  attempted,  something  done, 
Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 


LONGFELLOW.  293 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 

For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 
Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 

Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 
Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 

Each  burning  deed  and  thought ! 


THE     SKELETON     IN     ARMOUR.* 

4C  OPEAK  !  speak  !  thou  fearful  guest ! 

^   Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armour  dressed, 

Comest  to  daunt  me  ! 
Wrapped  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ?" 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December ; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber  : 

"  I  was  a  Viking  old  ! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold, 


'"  Suggested   by  the  discovery,  at  Fall   River,  Massachusetts,  of  a 
skeleton,  clad  in  broken  and  corroded  armour. 

14 


294  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee  ! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse ; 
For  this  I  sought  thee. 

"  Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  ger-falcon ; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 

"  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf's  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 

"  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led ; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 


LONGFELLOW.  295 

"  Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out ; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Filled  to  o'erflowing. 

"  Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  yet  tender ; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendour. 

"  I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 

"  Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory ; 
When  of  old  HILDEBRAND 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 


296  GOLDEN  LE A  YES. 

Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 
To  hear  my  story. 

"  While  the  brown  ale  he  quafted, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed  ; 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

"  She  was  a  Prince's  child, 

I  but  a  Viking  wild ; 

And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded  ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight — 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded  ? 

"  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, — 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen  ! — 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  HILDEBRAND, 

With  twenty  horsemen  ! 

"  Then  launched  they  to  the  blast ; 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 
When  the  wind  failed  us ; 


LONG  FE  LL  0  W.  297 

And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 
Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

"  And  as,  to  catch  the  gale, 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
'Death  !'  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

'Death  without  quarter  !' 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water  ! 

"As,  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  lee-ward  ; 
There,  for  my  lady's  bower, 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower,* 

*  The  Round  Tower  at  Newport,  generally  known  as  the  "  Old 
Wind-Mill,"  though  now  claimed  by  the  Danes  as  the  work  of  their 
early  ancestors,  who  are  supposed  to  have  discovered  the  American 
continent  at  least  two  centuries  before  COLUMBUS. 


298  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Which,  to  this  very  hour, 
Stands  looking  sea-ward. 

te  There  lived  we  many  years ; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears ; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother ; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies ; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another ! 

"  Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen  ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sunlight  hateful ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear — 

Oh,  death  was  grateful ! 

"  Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison-bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended  ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
'Skoal!  to  the  Northland  !  shoal  T  n  * 

— Thus  the  tale  ended. 


*  In  Scandinavia,  this  is  the  customary  salutation  when  drinking 
a  health. 


MRS.    HO  WE.  299 


lulta  lUarb 


WOMAN. 

A     VESTAL  priestess,  proudly  pure, 
**•  But  of  a  meek  and  quiet  spirit  ; 

With  soul  all  dauntless  to  endure, 

And  mood  so  calm  that  naught  can  stir  it, 
Save  when  a  thought  most  deeply  thrilling 
Her  eyes  with  gentlest  tears  is  filling, 
Which  seem  with  her  true  words  to  start 
From  the  deep  fountain  at  her  heart. 

A  mien  that  neither  seeks  nor  shuns 

The  homage  scattered  in  her  way  ; 
A  love  that  hath  few  favoured  ones, 

And  yet  for  all  can  work  and  pray  ; 
A  smile  wherein  each  mortal  reads 
The  very  sympathy  he  needs  ; 
An  eye  like  to  a  mystic  book 

Of  lays  that  bard  or  prophet  sings, 
Which  keepeth  for  the  holiest  look 

Of  holiest  love  its  deepest  things. 

A  form  to  which  a  king  had  bent, 
The  fireside's  dearest  ornament  — 
Known  in  the  dwellings  of  the  poor 
Better  than  at  the  rich  man's  door  ; 
A  life  that  ever  onward  goes, 
Yet  in  itself  has  deep  repose. 

A  vestal  priestess,  maid,  or  wife  — 
Vestal,  and  vowed  to  offer  up 


300  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

The  innocence  of  a  holy  life 

To  Him  who  gives  the  mingled  cup ; 
With  man  its  bitter  sweets  to  share, 
To  live  and  love,  to  do  and  dare ; 
His  prayer  to  breathe,  his  tears  to  shed, 
Breaking  to  him  the  heavenly  bread 
Of  hopes  which,  all  too  high  for  earth, 
Have  yet  in  her  a  mortal  birth. 

This  is  the  woman  I  have  dreamed, 
And  to  my  childish  thought  she  seemed 
The  woman  I  myself  should  be : 
Alas !   I  would  that  I  were  she. 


THE     DEAD     CHRIST. 


the  dead  CHRIST  to  my  chamber- 
The  CHRIST  I  brought  from  Rome  ; 
Over  all  the  tossing  ocean, 

He  has  reached  His  Western  home  : 
Bear  Him  as  in  procession, 

And  lay  Him  solemnly 
Where,  through  weary  night  and  morning, 
He  shall  bear  me  company. 

The  name  I  bear  is  other 

Than  that  I  bore  by  birth  ; 
And  I've  given  life  to  children, 

Who'll  grow  and  dwell  on  earth  ; 
But  the  time  comes  swiftly  towards  me  — 

Nor  do  I  bid  it  stay  — 


MRS.   HO  WE.  301 

When  the  dead  CHRIST  will  be  more  to  me 
Than  all  I  hold  to-day. 

Lay  the  dead  CHRIST  beside  me — 

Oh,  press  Him  to  my  heart ! 
I  would  hold  him  long  and  painfully, 

Till  the  weary  tears  should  start — 
Till  the  divine  contagion 

Heal  me  of  self  and  sin, 
And  the  cold  weight  press  wholly  down 

The  pulse  that  chokes  within. 

Reproof  and  frost,  they  fret  me  ; 

Toward  the  free,  the  sunny  lands, 
From  the  chaos  of  existence, 

I  stretch  these  feeble  hands — 
And,  penitential,  kneeling, 

Pray  GOD  would  not  be  wroth, 
Who  gave  not  the  strength  of  feeling 

And  strength  of  labour  both. 

Thou'rt  but  a  wooden  carving, 

Defaced  of  worms,  and  old ; 
Yet  more  to  me  Thou  couldst  not  be 

Wert  Thou  all  wrapped  in  gold 
Like  the  gem-bedizened  baby 

Which,  at  the  Twelfth-day  noon, 
They  show  from  the  Ara  Cceli's  steps 

To  a  merry  dancing-tune. 

I  ask  of  Thee  no  wonders — 

No  changing  white  or  red ; 
I  dream  not  Thou  art  living, 

I  love  and  prize  Thee  dead. 


302  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

That  salutary  deadness 

I  seek  through  want  and  pain, 

From  which  GOD'S  own  high  power  can  bid 
Our  virtue  rise  again. 


3ame0  Ritssdl  £ou)dl. 


ACT     FOR     TRUTH. 

'  I  ^HE  busy  world  shoves  angrily  aside 
•^     The  man  who  stands  with  arms  akimbo  set, 
Until  occasion  tells  him  what  to  do  ; 
And  he  who  waits  to  have  his  task  marked  out, 
Shall  die  and  leave  his  errand  unfulfilled. 
Our  time  is  one  that  calls  for  earnest  deeds  : 
Reason  and  Government,  like  two  broad  seas, 
Yearn  for  each  other  with  outstretched  arms 
Across  this  narrow  isthmus  of  the  throne, 
And  roll  their  white  surf  higher  every  day. 
One  age  moves  onward,  and  the  next  builds  up 
Cities  and  gorgeous  palaces,  where  stood 
The  rude  log  huts  of  those  who  tamed  the  wild, 
Rearing  from  out  the  forests  they  had  felled 
The  goodly  framework  of  a  fairer  state  ; 
The  builder's  trowel  and  the  settler's  axe 
Are  seldom  wielded  by  the  self-same  hand  ; 
Ours  is  the  harder  task,  yet  not  the  less 
Shall  we  receive  the  blessing  for  our  toil 
From  the  choice  spirits  of  the  after-time. 
The  field  lies  wide  before  us,  where  to  reap 
The  easy  harvest  of  a  deathless  name, 


LOWELL.  303 

Though  with  no  better  sickles  than  our  swords. 

My  soul  is  not  a  palace  of  the  past, 

Where  outworn  creeds,  like  Rome's  gray  senate,  quake, 

Hearing  afar  the  Vandal's  trumpet  hoarse, 

That  shakes  old  systems  with  a  thunder-fit. 

The  time  is  ripe,  and  rotten-ripe,  for  change ; 

Then  let  it  come :   I  have  no  dread  of  what 

Is  called  for  by  the  instinct  of  mankind ; 

Nor  think  I  that  GOD'S  world  will  fall  apart 

Because  we  tear  a  parchment  more  or  less. 

Truth  is  eternal,  but  her  effluence, 

With  endless  change,  is  fitted  to  the  hour ; 

Her  mirror  is  turned  forward,  to  reflect 

The  promise  of  the  future,  not  the  past. 

He  who  would  win  the  name  of  truly  great, 

Must  understand  his  own  age  and  the  next, 

And  make  the  present  ready  to  fulfil 

Its  prophecy,  and  with  the  future  merge 

Gently  and  peacefully,  as  wave  with  wave. 

The  future  works  out  great  men's  destinies ; 

The  present  is  enough  for  common  souls, 

Who,  never  looking  forward,  are  indeed 

Mere  clay,  wherein  the  footprints  of  their  age 

Are  petrified  forever  :  better  those 

Who  lead  the  blind  old  giant  by  the  hand 

From  out  the  pathless  desert  where  he  gropes, 

And  set  him  onward  in  his  darksome  way. 

I  do  not  fear  to  follow  out  the  truth, 

Albeit  along  the  precipice's  edge. 

Let  us  speak  plain  :   there  is  more  force  in  names 

Than  most  men  dream  of;  and  a  lie  may  keep 

Its  throne  a  whole  age  longer  if  it  skulk 


304  GOLD E N  LEA  VE S. 

Behind  the  shield  of  some  fair-seeming  name. 
Let  us  call  tyrants  tyrants,  and  maintain 
That  only  freedom  comes  by  grace  of  GOD, 
And  all  that  comes  not  by  His  grace  must  fall ; 
P'or  men  in  earnest  have  no  time  to  waste 
In  patching  fig-leaves  for  the  naked  truth. 


THE     HERITAGE. 

'TpHE  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands, 
-*"       And  piles  of  brick,  and  stone,  and  gold. 

And  he  inherits  soft,  white  hands, 
And  tender  flesh  that  fears  the  cold, 
Nor  dares  to  wear  a  garment  old ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  cares : 

The  bank  may  break,  the  factory  burn, 

A  breath  may  burst  his  bubble  shares, 
And  soft,  white  hands  could  hardly  earn 
A  living  that  would  serve  his  turn  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  wants : 
His  stomach  craves  for  dainty  fare ; 

With  sated  heart  he  hears  the  pants 

Of  toiling  hinds  with  brown  arms  bare, 
And  wearies  in  his  easy-chair; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 


LOWELL.  3°5 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  ? 

Stout  muscles  and  a  sinewy  heart, 
A  hardy  frame,  a  hardier  spirit ; 

King  of  two  hands,  he  does  his  part 

In  every  useful  toil  and  art ; 
A  hericage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  ? 

Wishes  o'erjoyed  with  humble  things, 
A  rank  adjudged  by  toil-won  merit, 

Content  that  from  employment  springs, 

A  heart  that  in  his  labour  sings ; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  ? 
A  patience  learned  of  being  poor ; 

Courage,  if  sorrow  come,  to  bear  it, 
A  fellow-feeling  that  is  sure 
To  make  the  outcast  bless  his  door ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

O  rich  man's  son  !  there  is  a  toil, 
That  with  all  others  level  stands ; 

Large  charity  doth  never  soil, 

But  only  whiten,  soft,  white  hands, — 
This  is  the  best  crop  from  thy  lands ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  rich  to  hold  in  fee. 

O  poor  man's  son  !  scorn  not  thy  state ; 
There  is  worse  weariness  than  thine, 


306  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

In  merely  being  rich  and  great ; 
Toil  only  gives  the  soul  to  shine, 
And  makes  rest  fragrant  and  benign ; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
Worth  being  poor  to  hold  in  fee. 

Both,  heirs  to  some  six  feet  of  sod, 
Are  equal  in  the  earth  at  last ; 

Both,  children  of  the  same  dear  GOD, 
Prove  title  to  your  heirship  vast 
By  record  of  a  well- filled  past; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Well  worth  a  life  to  hold  in  fee. 


TO     THE     DANDELION. 

common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way, 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 
First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
Which  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride,  uphold, 

High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'erjoyed  that  they 
An  El  Dorado  in  the  grass  have  found, 

Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 
May  match  in  wealth — thou  art  more  dear  to  me 
Than  all  the  prouder  summer-blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish  prow 
Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  Age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease ; 

'Tis  the  Spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 


LOWELL.  307 

To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand, 

Though  most  hearts  never  understand 
To  take  it  at  GOD'S  value,  but  pass  by 
The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 

Thou  art  my  trophies  and  mine  Italy ; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime ; 

The  eyes  thou  givest  me 
Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or  time ; 

Not  in  mid  June  the  golden-cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a  more  summer-like,  warm  ravishment 

In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tint, 
His  conquered  SYBARIS,  than  I,  when  first 
From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles  burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  on  the  grass — 
Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass, 
The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways — 

Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind — of  waters  blue 

That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 
Some  woodland  gap — and  of  a  sky  above, 
Where  one  white  cloud  like  a  stray  lamb  doth  move. 

My  childhood's  earliest  thoughts  are  linked  with  thee; 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song, 

Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long, 

And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 

With  news  from  heaven,  which  he  did  bring 
Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears, 
When  birds  and  flowers  and  I  were  happy  peers. 


308  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 


AN     INCIDENT     IN     A     RAILROAD     CAR. 

T  TE  spoke  of  BURNS  :   men  rude  and  rough 
Pressed  round  to  hear  the  praise  of  one 
Whose  heart  was  made  of  manly,  simple  stuff, 
As  homespun  as  their  own. 

And,  when  he  read,  they  forward  leaned, 
Drinking,  with  thirsty  hearts  and  ears, 
His  brook-like  songs  whom  glory  never  weaned 
From  humble  smiles  and  tears. 

Slowly  there  grew  a  tender  awe, 
Sunlike,  o'er  faces  brown  and  hard, 
As  if  in  him  who  read  they  felt  and  saw 
Some  presence  of  the  bard. 

It  was  a  sight  for  Sin  and  Wrong 
And  slavish  Tyranny  to  see, 
A  sight  to  make  our  faith  more  pure  and  strong 
In  high  humanity. 

I  thought,  "  These  men  will  carry  hence 
Promptings  their  former  life  above, 
And  something  of  a  finer  reverence 
For  beauty,  truth,  and  love. 

"  GOD  scatters  love  on  every  side, 
Freely  among  his  children  all, 
And  always  hearts  are  lying  open  wide, 
Wherein  some  grains  may  fall. 


LOWELL.  309 

"  There  is  no  wind  but  soweth  seeds 
Of  a  more  true  and  open  life, 
Which  burst,  unlooked-for,  into  high-souled  deeds 
With  wayside  beauty  rife. 

"  We  find  within  these  souls  of  ours 
Some  wild  germs  of  a  higher  birth, 
Which  in  the  poet's  tropic  heart  bear  flowers 
Whose  fragrance  fills  the  earth. 

"  Within  the  hearts  of  all  men  lie 
These  promises  of  wider  bliss, 
Which  blossom  into  hopes  that  cannot  die, 
In  sunny  hours  like  this. 

"  All  that  hath  been  majestical 
In  life  or  death,  since  time  began, 
Is  native  in  the  simple  heart  of  all, 
The  angel-heart  of  man. 

"  And  thus,  among  the  untaught  poor, 
Great  deeds  and  feelings  find  a  home, 
That  cast  in  shadow  all  the  golden  lore 
Of  classic  Greece  and  Rome." 

O  mighty  brother-soul  of  man, 
Where'er  thou  art,  in  low  or  high, 
Thy  skyey  arches  with  exulting  span 
O'er-roof  infinity  ! 

All  thoughts  that  mould  the  age  begin 
Deep  down  within  the  primitive  soul, 
And  from  the  many  slowly  upward  win 
To  one  who  grasps  the  whole  : 


310  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

In  his  broad  breast  the  feeling  deep 
That  struggled  on  the  many's  tongue, 
Swells  to  a  tide  of  Thought,  whose  surges  leap 
O'er  the  weak  thrones  of  Wrong. 

All  thought  begins  in  feeling, — wide 
In  the  great  mass  its  base  is  hid, 
And,  narrowing  up  to  thought,  stands  glorified, 
A  moveless  pyramid. 

Nor  is  he  far  astray  who  deems 
That  every  hope,  which  rises  and  grows  broad 
In  the  world's  heart,  by  ordered  impulse  streams 
From  the  great  heart  of  GOD. 

GOD  wills,  man  hopes :  in  common  souls 
Hope  is  but  vague  and  undefined, 
Till  from  the  poet's  tongue  the  message  rolls, 
A  blessing  to  his  kind. 

Never  did  Poesy  appear 
So  full  of  heaven  to  me,  as  when 
I  saw  how  it  would  pierce  through  pride  and  fear 
To  the  lives  of  coarsest  men. 

It  may  be  glorious  to  write 
Thoughts  that  shall  glad  the  two  or  three 
High  souls,  like  those  far  stars  that  come  in  sight 
Once  in  a  century; — 

But  better  far  it  is  to  speak 
One  simple  word,  which  now  and  then 
Shall  waken  their  free  nature  in  the  weak 
And  friendless  sons  of  men  ; 


LUNT.  311 

To  write  some  earnest  verse  or  line, 
Which,  seeking  not  the  praise  of  art, 
Shall  make  a  clearer  faith  and  manhood  shine 
In  the  untutored  heart. 

He  who  doth  this,  in  verse  or  prose, 
May  be  forgotten  in  his  day, 
But  surely  shall  be  crowned  at  last  with  those 
Who  live  and  speak  for  aye. 


©eorge  Cunt. 

THE     LYRE     AND     SWORD. 

HE  freeman's  glittering  sword  be  blest — 

Forever  blest  the  freeman's  lyre — 
That  rings  upon  the  tyrant's  crest ; 

This  stirs  the  heart  like  living  fire  : 
Well  can  he  wield  the  shining  brand, 
Who  battles  for  his  native  land ; 

But  when  his  fingers  sweep  the  chords, 

That  summon  heroes  to  the  fray, 
They  gather  at  the  feast  of  swords 
Like  mountain-eagles  to  their  prey  ! 

And  mid  the  vales  and  swelling  hills 
That  sweetly  bloom  in  Freedom's  land, 

A  living  spirit  breathes  and  fills 

The  freeman's  heart  and  nerves  his  hand ; 

For  the  bright  soil  that  gave  him  birth, 

The  home  of  all  he  loves  on  earth  — 


312  G  0  L  DEN  L  EA  VES. 

For  this,  when  Freedom's  trumpet  calls, 
He  waves  on  high  his  sword  of  fire  — 

For  this,  amidst  his  country's  halls, 
Forever  strikes  the  freeman's  lyre  ! 

His  burning  heart  he  may  not  lend 

To  serve  a  doting  despot's  sway — 
A  suppliant  knee  he  will  not  bend 

Before  these  things  of  "  brass  and  clay  :" 
When  Wrong  and  Ruin  call  to  war, 
He  knows  the  summons  from  afar ; 

On  high  his  glittering  sword  he  waves, 
And  myriads  feel  the  freeman's  fire, 

While  he,  around  their  fathers'  graves, 
Strikes  to  old  strains  the  freeman's  lyre  ! 


Amelia  B.  tUdbn. 

THE    OLD    MAID. 

T  T  7HY  sits  she  thus  in  solitude  ?     Her  heart 

Seems  melting  in  her  eyes'  delicious  blue ; 
And  as  it  heaves,  her  ripe  lips  lie  apart, 

As  if  to  let  its  heavy  throbbings  through ; 
In  her  dark  eye  a  depth  of  softness  swells, 

Deeper  than  that  her  careless  girlhood  wore ; 
And  her  cheek  crimsons  with  the  hue  that  tells 

The  rich,  fair  fruit  is  ripened  to  the  core. 

It  is  her  thirtieth  birthday  !      With  a  sigh 

Her  soul  hath  turned  from  youth's  luxuriant  bowers, 


MRS.     WE  LEY.  313 

And  her  heart  taken  up  the  last  sweet  tie 

That  measured  out  its  links  of  golden  hours  ! 

She  feels  her  inmost  soul  within  her  stir 

With  thoughts  too  wild  and  passionate  to  speak ; 

Yet  her  full  heart — its  own  interpreter — 
Translates  itself  in  silence  on  her  cheek. 

Joy's  opening  buds,  Affection's  glowing  flowers, 

Once  lightly  sprang  within  her  beaming  track ; 
Oh,  life  was  beautiful  in  those  lost  hours ! 

And  yet  she  does  not  wish  to  wander  back ; 
No !  she  but  loves  in  loneliness  to  think 

On  pleasures  past,  though  never  more  to  be ; 
Hope  links  her  to  the  future — but  the  link 

That  binds  her  to  the  past  is  memory. 

From  her  lone  path  she  never  turns  aside, 

Though  passionate  worshippers  before  her  fall ; 
Like  some  pure  planet  in  her  lonely  pride, 

She  seems  to  soar  and  beam  above  them  all. 
Not  that  her  heart  is  cold — emotions  new 

And  fresh  as  flowers  are  with  her  heart-strings  knit ; 
And  sweetly  mournful  pleasures  wander  through 

Her  virgin  soul,  and  softly  ruffle  it. 

For  she  hath  lived  with  heart  and  soul  alive 

To  all  that  makes  life  beautiful  and  fair ; 
Sweet  thoughts,  like  honey-bees,  have  made  their  hive 

Of  her  soft  bosom-cell,  and  cluster  there. 
Yei  life  is  not  to  her  what  it  hath  been — 

Her  soul  hath  learned  to  look  beyond  its  gloss ; 
And  now  she  hovers,  like  a  star,  between 

Her  deeds  of  love,  her  Saviour  on  the  cross ! 


314  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Beneath  the  cares  of  earth  she  does  not  bow, 

Though  she  hath  ofttimes  drained  its  bitter  cup ; 
B-it  ever  wanders  on  with  heavenward  brow, 

And  eyes  whose  lovely  lids  are  lifted  up. 
She  feels  that  in  that  lovelier,  happier  sphere 

Her  bosom  yet  will,  bird-like,  find  its  mate, 
And  all  the  joys  it  found  so  blissful  here 

Within  that  spirit-realm  perpetuate. 

Yet  sometimes  o'er  her  trembling  heart-strings  thrill 

Soft  sighs — for  raptures  it  hath  ne'er  enjoyed ; 
And  then  she  dreams  of  love,  and  strives  to  fill 

With  wild  and  passionate  thoughts  the  craving  void. 
And  thus  she  wanders  on — half  sad,  half  blest — 

Without  a  mate  for  the  pure,  lonely  heart 
That,  yearning,  throbs  within  her  virgin  breast, 

Never  to  find  its  lovely  counterpart ! 


TO     A     SEA-SHELL. 

OHELL  of  the  bright  sea-waves 
^  What  is  it  that  we  hear  in  thy  sad  moan  ? 
Is  this  unceasing  music  all  thine  own, 
Lute  of  the  ocean-caves  ? 

Or  does  some  spirit  dwell 
In  the  deep  windings  of  thy  chambers  dim, 
Breathing  forever,  in  its  mournful  hymn, 

Of  ocean's  anthem-swell  ? 

Wert  thou  a  murmurer  long 
In  crystal  palaces  beneath  the  seas, 
Ere  from  the  blue  sky  thou  hadst  heard  the  breeze 

Pour  its  full  tide  of  song  ? 


MBS.     WELB7.  315 

Another  thing  with  thee : 
Are  there  not  gorgeous  cities  in  the  deep, 
Buried  with  flashing  gems  that  brightly  sleep, 

Hid  by  the  mighty  sea  ? 

And  say,  O  lone  sea-shell ! 
Are  there  not  costly  things  and  sweet  perfumes 
Scattered  in  waste  o'er  that  sea-gulf  of  tombs  ? 

Hush  thy  low  moan,  and  tell. 

But  yet,  and  more  than  all — 
Has  not  each  foaming  wave  in  fury  tossed 
O'er  earth's  most  beautiful,  the  brave,  the  lost, 

Like  a  dark  funeral-pall  ? 

'Tis  vain — thou  answerest  not ! 
Thou  hast  no  voice  to  whisper  of  the  dead ; 
'Tis  ours  alone,  with  sighs  like  odours  shed, 

To  hold  them  unforgot ! 

Thine  is  as  sad  a  strain 
As  if  the  spirit  in  thy  hidden  cell 
Pined  to  be  with  the  many  things  that  dwell 

In  the  wild,  restless  main. 

And  yet  there  is  no  sound 
Upon  the  waters,  whispered  by  the  waves, 
But  seemeth  like  a  wail  from  many  graves, 

Thrilling  the  air  around. 

The  earth— O  moaning  shell ! — 
The  earth  hath  melodies  more  sweet  than  these — 
The  music-gush  of  rills,  the  hum  of  bees 

Heard  in  each  blossom's  bell. 


316  G  OLDEN   LEAVES. 

Are  not  these  tones  of  earth, 
The  rustling  forest,  with  its  shivering  leaves, 
Sweeter  than  sounds  that  e'en  in  moonlit  eves 

Upon  the  seas  have  birth  ? 

Alas  !   thou  still  wilt  moan — 
Thou'rt  like  the  heart  that  wastes  itself  in  sighs, 
E'en  when  amid  bewildering  melodies, 

If  parted  from  its  own. 


Nathaniel  JJarker  tUillts. 

THE      DYING      ALCHEMIST. 

'  I  ^HE  night  wind  with  a  desolate  moan  swept  by, 

•*•     And  the  old  shutters  of  the  turret  swung 
Screaming  upon  their  hinges ;   and  the  moon, 
As  the  torn  edges  of  the  clouds  flew  past, 
Struggled  aslant  the  stained  and  broken  panes 
So  dimly,  that  the  watchful  eye  of  death 
Scarcely  was  conscious  when  it  went  and  came. 

The  fire  beneath  his  crucible  was  low ; 
Yet  still  it  burned ;   and  ever  as  his  thoughts 
Grew  insupportable,  he  raised  himself 
Upon  his  wasted  arm,  and  stirred  the  coals 
With  difficult  energy ;  and  when  the  rod 
Fell  from  his  nerveless  fingers,  and  his  eye 
Felt  faint  within  its  sockets,  he  shrunk  back 
Upon  his  pallet,  and  with  unclosed  lips 
Muttered  a  curse  on  Death  !      The  silent  room, 


WILLIS.  317 

From  its  dim  corners,  mockingly  gave  back 
His  rattling  breath  ;   the  humming  in  the  fire 
Had  the  distinctness  of  a  knell ;  and  when 
Duly  the  antique  horologe  beat  one, 
He  drew  a  vial  from  beneath  his  head, 
And  drank.      And  instantly  his  lips  compressed, 
And,  with  a  shudder  in  his  skeleton  frame, 
He  rose  with  supernatural  strength,  and  sat 
Upright,  and  communed  with  himself: 

"  I  did  not  think  to  die 
Till  I  had  finished  what  I  had  to  do ; 
I  thought  to  pierce  the  eternal  secret  through 

With  this  my  mortal  eye ; 
I  felt — O  GOD  !  it  seemeth,  even  now, 
This  cannot  be  the  death-dew  on  my  brow ! 

"  And  yet  it  is — I  feel, 
Of  this  dull  sickness  at  my  heart,  afraid  ! 
And  in  my  eyes  the  death-sparks  flash  and  fade ; 

And  something  seems  to  steal 
Over  my  bosom  like  a  frozen  hand — 
Binding  its  pulse  with  an  icy  band. 

"  And  this  is  death  !     But  why 
Feel  I  this  wild  recoil  ?     It  cannot  be 
The  immortal  spirit  shuddereth  to  be  free ! 

Would  it  not  leap  to  fly, 
Like  a  chained  eaglet  at  its  parent's  call  ? 
I  fear — I  fear — that  this  poor  life  is  all ! 

"  Yet  thus  to  pass  away  ! — 
To  live  but  for  a  hope  that  mocks  at  last — 
To  agonize,  to  strive,  to  watch,  to  fast, 


318  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

To  waste  the  light  of  day, 
Night's  better  beauty,  feeling,  fancy,  thought, 
All  that  we  have  and  are — for  this — for  naught ! 

"  Grant  me  another  year, 
GOD  of  my  spirit ! — but  a  day — to  win 
Something  to  satisfy  this  thirst  within  ! 

I  would  KNOW  something  here  ! 
Break  for  me  but  one  seal  that  is  unbroken  ! 
Speak  for  me  but  one  word  that  is  unspoken  ! 

"  Vain — vain  ! — my  brain  is  turning 
With  a  swift  dizziness,  and  my  heart  grows  sick, 
And  these  hot  temple-throbs  come  fast  and  thick, 

And  I  am  freezing — burning — 
Dying  !      O  GOD  !  if  I  might  only  live  ! 
My  vial Ha  !  it  thrills  me — I  revive  ! 

"  Ay — were  not  man  to  die, 
He  were  too  mighty  for  this  narrow  sphere  ! 
Had  he  but  time  to  brood  on  knowledge  here — 

Could  he  but  train  his  eye — 
Might  he  but  wait  the  mystic  word  and  hour — 
Only  his  Maker  would  transcend  his  power  ! 

"  Earth  has  no  mineral  strange — 
The  illimitable  air  no  hidden  wings — 
Water  no  quality  in  covert  springs, 

And  fire  no  power  to  change — 
Seasons  no  mystery,  and  stars  no  spell, 
Which  the  unvvasting  soul  might  not  compel. 

"  Oh,  but  for  time  to  track 
The  upper  stars  into  the  pathless  sky — 


WILLIS.  319 

To  see  the  invisible  spirits  eye  to  eye — 

To  hurl  the  lightning  back — 
To  tread  unhurt  the  sea's  dim-lighted  halls — 
To  chase  Day's  chariot  to  the  horizon-walls — 

"  And  more,  much  more  ! — for  now 
The  life-sealed  fountains  of  my  nature  move — 
To  nurse  and  purify  this  human  love — 

To  clear  the  godlike  brow 
Of  Weakness  and  Mistrust,  and  bow  it  down, 
Worthy  and  beautiful,  to  the  much-loved  one — 

"  This  were  indeed  to  feel 
The  soul-thirst  slaken  at  the  living  stream — 
To  live  ! — O  GOD  !  that  life  is  but  a  dream  ! 

And  death Aha  !   I  reel — 

Dim — dim — I  faint — darkness  comes  o'er  my  eye — 
Cover  me  !  save  me  ! — GOD  of  heaven  !   I  die  !" 

'Twas  morning,  and  the  old  man  lay  alone. 
No  friend  had  closed  his  eyelids ;   and  his  lips, 
Open  and  ashy  pale,  th'  expression  wore 
Of  his  death-struggle.      His  long,  silvery  hair 
Lay  on  his  hollow  temples  thin  and  wild, 
His  frame  was  wasted,  and  his  features  wan 
And  haggard  as  with  want,  and  in  his  palm 
His  nails  were  driven  deep,  as  if  the  throe 
Of  his  last  agony  had  wrung  him  sore. 
The  storm  was  raging  still.      The  shutters  swung 
Screaming  and  harshly  in  the  fitful  wind, 
And  all  without  went  on — as  aye  it  will, 
Sunshine  or  tempest,  reckless  that  a  heart 
Is  breaking,  or  has  broken,  in  its  change. 


320  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

The  fire  beneath  the  crucible  was  out ; 
The  vessels  of  his  mystic  art  lay  round, 
Useless  and  cold  as  the  ambitious  hand 
That  fashioned  them ;   and  the  small  rod, 
Familiar  to  his  touch  for  threescore  years, 
Lay  on  the  alembic's  rim,  as  if  it  still 
Might  vex  the  elements  at  its  master's  will. 

And  thus  had  passed  from  its  unequal  frame 
A  soul  of  fire — a  sun-bent  eagle  stricken 
From  his  high  soaring  down — an  instrument 
Broken  with  its  own  compass.      Oh,  how  poor 
Seems  the  rich  gift  of  genius,  when  it  lies, 
Like  the  adventurous  bird  that  hath  outflown 
His  strength  upon  the  sea,  ambition-wrecked — 
A  thing  the  thrush  might  pity,  as  she  sits 
Brooding  in  quiet  on  her  lowly  nest ! 


THE     LEPER. 

OOM  for  the  leper ! — room  !"     And,  as  he  came, 
The  cry  passed  on,  "  Room  for  the  leper  !  room  !" 
Sunrise  was  slanting  on  the  city  gates 
Rosy  and  beautiful,  and  from  the  hills 
The  early-risen  poor  were  coming  in, 
Duly  and  cheerfully,  to  their  toil ;   and  up 
Rose  the  sharp  hammer's  clink,  and  the  far  hum 
Of  moving  wheels  and  multitudes  astir, 
And  all  that  in  a  city  murmur  swells, 
.Unheard  but  by  the  watcher's  weary  ear, 
Aching  with  night's  dull  silence,  or  the  sick 


WILLIS.  321 

Hailing  the  welcome  light,  and  sounds  that  chase 
The  death-like  images  of  the  dark  away. 

"  Room  for  the  leper  !"     And  aside  they  stood, 
Matron,  and  child,  and  pitiless  manhood — all 
Who  met  him  on  his  way — and  let  him  pass. 
And  onward  through  the  open  gate  he  came, 
A  leper  with  the  ashes  on  his  brow, 
Sackcloth  about  his  loins,  and  on  his  lip 
A  covering,  stepping  painfully  and  slow, 
And  with  a  difficult  utterance,  like  one 
Whose  heart  is  with  an  iron  nerve  put  down, 
Crying,  "  Unclean  !  unclean  !" 

'Twas  now  the  depth 
Of  the  Judean  summer ;  and  the  leaves, 
Whose  shadows  lay  so  still  upon  his  path, 
Had  budded  on  the  clear  and  flashing  eye 
Of  Judah's  loftiest  noble.      He  was  young, 
And  eminently  beautiful,  and  life 
Mantled  in  eloquent  fulness  on  his  lip, 
And  sparkled  in  his  glance  ;   and  in  his  mien 
There  was  a  gracious  pride  that  every  eye 
Followed  with  benisons — and  this  was  he  ! 
With  the  soft  airs  of  summer  there  had  come 
A  torpor  on  his  frame,  which  not  the  speed 
Of  his  best  barb,  nor  music,  nor  the  blast 
Of  the  bold  huntsman's  horn,  nor  aught  that  stirs 
The  spirit  to  its  bent,  might  drive  away. 
The  blood  beat  not  as  wont  within  his  veins ; 
Dimness  crept  o'er  his  eye ;  a  drowsy  sloth 
Fettered  his  limbs  like  palsy,  and  his  port, 
With  all  its  loftiness,  seemed  struck  with  eld. 


322  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

Even  his  voice  was  changed — a  languid  moan 
Taking  the  place  of  the  clear,  silver  key ; 
And  brain  and  sense  grew  faint,  as  if  the  light, 
And  very  air,  were  steeped  in  sluggishness. 
He  strove  with  it  awhile,  as  manhood  will, 
Ever  too  proud  for  weakness,  till  the  rein 
Slackened  within  his  grasp,  and  in  its  poise 
The  arrowy  jereed  like  an  aspen  shook. 
Day  after  day  he  lay  as  if  in  sleep ; 
His  skin  grew  dry  and  bloodless,  and  white  scales, 
Circled  with  livid  purple,  covered  him ; 
And  then  his  nails  grew  black,  and  fell  away 
From  the  dull  flesh  about  them,  and  the  hues 
Deepened  beneath  the  hard,  unmoistened  scales, 
And  from  their  edges  grew  the  rank  white  hair, 
— And  HELON  was  a  leper ! 

Day  was  breaking 

When  at  the  altar  of  the  temple  stood 
The  holy  priest  of  GOD.     The  incense-lamp 
Burned  with  a  struggling  light,  and  a  low  chant 
Swelled  through  the  hollow  arches  of  the  roof 
Like  an  articulate  wail ;   and  there,  alone, 
Wasted  to  ghastly  thinness,  HELON  knelt. 
The  echoes  of  the  melancholy  strain 
Died  in  the  distant  aisles,  and  he  rose  up, 
Struggling  with  weakness,  and  bowed  down  his  head 
Unto  the  sprinkled  ashes,  and  put  off 
His  costly  raiment  for  the  leper's  garb ; 
And,  with  the  sackcloth  round  him,  and  his  lip 
Hid  in  a  loathsome  covering,  stood  still, 
Waiting  to  hear  his  doom  : 


WILLIS.  323 

"  Depart !   depart,  O  child 
Of  Israel,  from  the  temple  of  thy  GOD; 
For  He  has  smote  thee  with  His  chastening  rod, 

And  to  the  desert  wild, 

From  all  thou  lov'st,  away  thy  feet  must  flee, 
That  from  thy  plague  His  people  may  be  free. 

"  Depart !  and  come  not  near 
The  busy  mart,  the  crowded  city,  more ; 
Nor  set  thy  foot  a  human  threshold  o'er, 

And  stay  thou  not  to  hear 
Voices  that  call  thee  in  the  way ;  and  fly 
From  all  who  in  the  wilderness  pass  by. 

"  Wet  not  thy  burning  lip 
In  streams  that  to  a  human  dwelling  glide ; 
Nor  rest  thee  where  the  covert  fountains  hide ; 

Nor  kneel  thee  down  to  dip 
The  water  where  the  pilgrim  bends  to  drink, 
By  desert  well,  or  river's  grassy  brink. 

"  And  pass  not  thou  between 
The  weary  traveller  and  the  cooling  breeze, 
And  lie  not  down  to  sleep  beneath  the  trees 

Where  human  tracks  are  seen ; 
Nor  milk  the  goat  that  browseth  on  the  plain, 
Nor  pluck  the  standing  corn,  or  yellow  grain. 

"  And  now  depart ! — and  when 
Thy  heart  is  heavy,  and  thine  eyes  are  dim, 
Lift  up  thy  prayer  beseechingly  to  Him 

Who,  from  the  tribes  of  men, 
Selected  thee  to  feel  His  chastening  rod. 
Depart,  O  leper  !   and  forget  not  GOD  !" 


324  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

And  he  went  forth — alone ;  not  one,  of  all 
The  many  whom  he  loved,  nor  she  whose  name 
Was  woven  in  the  fibres  of  the  heart 
Breaking  within  him  now,  to  come  and  speak 
Comfort  unto  him.      Yea,  he  went  his  way, 
Sick  and  heart-broken,  and  alone,  to  die ; — 
For  GOD  hath  cursed  the  leper  ! 

It  was  noon, 

And  HELON  knelt  beside  a  stagnant  pool 
In  the  lone  wilderness,  and  bathed  his  brow, 
Hot  with  the  burning  leprosy,  and  touched 
The  loathsome  water  to  his  fevered  lips, 
Praying  that  he  might  be  so  blessed — to  die  ! 
Footsteps  approached,  and,  with  no  strength  to  flee, 
He  drew  the  covering  closer  on  his  lip, 
Crying,  "  Unclean  !   unclean  !"  and,  in  the  folds 
Of  the  coarse  sackcloth,  shrouding  up  his  face, 
He  fell  upon  the  earth  till  they  should  pass. 
Nearer  the  stranger  came,  and,  bending  o'er 
The  leper's  prostrate  form,  pronounced  his  name, 
— "  HELON  !" — the  voice  was  like  the  master-tone 
Of  a  rich  instrument — most  strangely  sweet ; 
And  the  dull  pulses  of  disease  awoke, 
And  for  a  moment  beat  beneath  the  hot 
And  leprous  scales  with  a  restoring  thrill. 
"  HELON,  arise  !"  and  he  forgot  his  curse, 
And  rose,  and  stood  before  him. 

Love  and  awe 

Mingled  in  the  regard  of  HELON'S  eye 
As  he  beheld  the  stranger.      He  was  not 
In  costly  raiment  clad,  nor  on  his  brow 


WILLIS.  325 

The  symbol  of  a  princely  lineage  wore ; 
No  followers  at  his  back,  nor  in  his  hand 
Buckler,  or  sword,  or  spear ; — yet  in  his  mien 
Command  sat  throned  serene,  and,  if  he  smiled, 
A  kingly  condescension  graced  his  lips, 
The  lion  would  have  crouched  to  in  his  lair. 
His  garb  was  simple,  and  his  sandals  worn ; 
His  stature  modelled  with  a  perfect  grace ; 
His  countenance,  the  impress  of  a  GOD, 
Touched  with  the  open  innocence  of  a  child ; 
His  eye  was  blue  and  calm,  as  is  the  sky 
In  the  serenest  noon ;  his  hair,  unshorn, 
Fell  to  his  shoulders ;  and  his  curling  beard 
The  fulness  of  perfected  manhood  bore. 
He  looked  on  HELON  earnestly  awhile, 
As  if  his  heart  were  moved,  and,  stooping  down, 
He  took  a  little  water  in  his  hand, 
And  laid  it  on  his  brow,  and  said,  t(  Be  clean  !" 
And  lo  !   the  scales  fell  from  him,  and  his  blood 
Coursed  with  delicious  coolness  through  his  veins, 
And  his  dry  palms  grew  moist,  and  on  his  brow 
The  dewy  softness  of  an  infant's  stole. 
His  leprosy  was  cleansed,  and  he  fell  down 
Prostrate  at  JESUS*  feet,  and  worshipped  him. 


HAGAR     IN     THE     WILDERNESS. 

^  I  "*HE  morning  broke.     Light  stole  upon  the  clouds 

With  a  strange  beauty.     Earth  received  again 
Its  garment  of  a  thousand  dyes ;   and  leaves, 
And  delicate  blossoms,  and  the  painted  flowers, 
'5* 


326  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

And  every  thing  that  bendeth  to  the  dew, 
And  stirreth  with  the  daylight,  lifted  up 
Its  beauty  to  the  breath  of  that  sweet  morn. 

All  things  are  dark  to  sorrow ;  and  the  light, 
And  loveliness,  and  fragrant  air,  were  sad 
To  the  dejected  HAGAR.      The  moist  earth 
Was  pouring  odours  from  its  spicy  pores, 
And  the  young  birds  were  carolling  as  life 
Were  a  new  thing  to  them ;  but,  oh !  it  came 
Upon  her  heart  like  discord,  and  she  felt 
How  cruelly  it  tries  a  broken  heart, 
To  see  a  mirth  in  any  thing  it  loves. 
She  stood  at  ABRAHAM'S  tent.     Her  lips  were  pressed 
Till  the  blood  left  them  ;  and  the  wandering  veins 
Of  her  transparent  forehead  were  swelled  out, 
As  if  her  pride  would  burst  them.      Her  dark  eye 
Was  clear  and  tearless ;  and  the  light  of  heaven, 
Which  made  its  language  legible,  shot  back 
From  her  long  lashes,  as  it  had  been  flame. 
Her  noble  boy  stood  by  her,  with  his  hand 
Clasped  in  her  own,  and  his  round,  delicate  feet, 
Scarce  trained  to  balance  on  the  tented  floor, 
Sandalled  for  journeying.      He  had  looked  up 
Into  his  mother's  face  until  he  caught 
The  spirit  there,  and  his  young  heart  was  swelling 
Beneath  his  snowy  bosom,  and  his  form 
Straightened  up  proudly  in  his  tiny  wrath, 
As  if  his  light  proportions  would  have  swelled, 
Had  they  but  matched  his  spirit,  to  the  man. 

Why  bends  the  patriarch  as  he  cometh  now 
Upon  his  staff"  so  wearily  ?     His  beard 


WILLIS.  327 

Is  low  upon  his  breast,  and  his  high  brow, 

So  written  with  the  converse  of  his  GOD, 

Beareth  the  swollen  vein  of  agony. 

His  lip  is  quivering,  and  his  wonted  step 

Of  vigour  is  not  there ;  and,  though  the  morn 

Is  passing  fair  and  beautiful,  he  breathes 

Its  freshness  as  it  were  a  pestilence. 

Oh  !  man  may  bear  with  suffering  :   his  heart 

Is  a  strong  thing,  and  godlike  in  the  grasp 

Of  pain  that  wrings  mortality ;   but  tear 

One  cord  affection  clings  to,  part  one  tie 

That  binds  him  to  a  woman's  delicate  love, 

And  his  great  spirit  yieldeth  like  a  reed. 

He  gave  to  her  the  water  and  the  bread, 
But  spoke  no  word,  and  trusted  not  himself 
To  look  upon  her  face ;   but  laid  his  hand, 
In  silent  blessing,  on  the  fair-haired  boy, 
And  left  her  to  her  lot  of  loneliness. 

Should  HAGAR  weep  ?     May  slighted  woman  turn, 
And,  as  a  vine  the  oak  hath  shaken  off", 
Bend  lightly  to  her  tendencies  again  ? 
Oh,  no !  by  all  her  loveliness,  by  all 
That  makes  life  poetry  and  beauty,  no  ! 
Make  her  a  slave ;  steal  from  her  rosy  cheek 
By  needless  jealousies ;  let  the  last  star 
Leave  her  a  watcher  by  your  couch  of  pain ; 
Wrong  her  by  petulance,  suspicion,  all 
That  makes  her  cup  a  bitterness — yet  give 
One  evidence  of  love,  and  earth  has  not 
An  emblem  of  devotedness  like  hers. 
But,  oh !  estrange  her  once,  it  boots  not  how, 


328  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

By  wrong  or  silence,  any  thing  that  tells 
A  change  has  come  upon  your  tenderness, — 
And  there  is  not  a  high  thing  out  of  heaven 
Her  pride  o'ermastereth  not. 

She  went  her  way  with  a  strong  step  and  slow; 
Her  pressed  lip  arched,  and  her  clear  eye  undimmed 
As  it  had  been  a  diamond,  and  her  form 
Borne  proudly  up,  as  if  her  heart  breathed  through. 
Her  child  kept  on  in  silence,  though  she  pressed 
His  hand  till  it  was  pained ;  for  he  had  caught, 
As  I  have  said,  her  spirit,  and  the  seed 
Of  a  stern  nation  had  been  breathed  upon. 

The  morning  passed,  and  Asia's  sun  rode  up 
In  the  clear  heaven,  and  every  beam  was  heat. 
The  cattle  of  the  hills  were  in  the  shade, 
And  the  bright  plumage  of  the  Orient  lay 
On  beating  bosoms  in  her  spicy  trees. 
It  was  an  hour  of  rest ;  but  HAGAR  found 
No  shelter  in  the  wilderness,  and  on 
She  kept  her  weary  way,  until  the  boy 
Hung  down  his  head,  and  opened  his  parched  lips 
For  water ;   but  she  could  not  give  it  him. 
She  laid  him  down  beneath  the  sultry  sky — 
For  it  was  better  than  the  close,  hot  breath 
Of  the  thick  pines — and  tried  to  comfort  him  ; 
But  he  was  sore  athirst,  and  his  blue  eyes 
Were  dim  and  bloodshot,  and  he  could  not  know 
Why  GOD  denied  him  water  in  the  wild. 
She  sat  a  little  longer,  and  he  grew 
Ghastly  and  faint,  as  if  he  would  have  died. 
It  was  too  much  for  her.      She  lifted  him, 


WILLIS.  329 

And  bore  him  farther  on,  and  laid  his  head 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  desert  shrub ; 

And,  shrouding  up  her  face,  she  went  away, 

And  sat  to  watch  where  he  could  see  her  not, 

Till  he  should  die ;  and,  watching  him,  she  mourned : 

"  GOD  stay  thee  in  thine  agony,  my  boy  ! 
I  cannot  see  thee  die ;   I  cannot  brook 

Upon  thy  brow  to  look, 
And  see  death  settle  on  my  cradle  joy. 
How  have  I  drunk  the  light  of  thy  blue  eye  ! 

And  could  I  see  thee  die  ? 

"  I  did  not  dream  of  this  when  thou  wast  straying, 
Like  an  unbound  gazelle,  among  the  flowers ; 

Or  wearing  rosy  hours, 
By  the  rich  gush  of  water-sources  playing, 
Then  sinking  weary  to  thy  smiling  sleep, 

So  beautiful  and  deep. 

"  Oh,  no  !  and  when  I  watched  by  thee  the  while, 
And  saw  thy  bright  curling  lip  in  thy  dream, 

And  thought  of  the  dark  stream 
In  my  own  land  of  Egypt,  the  deep  Nile, 
How  prayed  I  that  my  father's  land  might  be 

An  heritage  for  thee  ! 

"  And  now  the  grave  for  its  cold  breast  hath  won  thee, 
And  thy  white,  delicate  limbs  the  earth  will  press ; 

And  oh  !   my  last  caress 

Must  feel  thee  cold,  for  a  chill  hand  is  on  thee. 
How  can  I  leave  my  boy,  so  pillowed  there 

Upon  his  clustering  hair  !" 


33°  G  OLD  EN  LEAVES. 

She  stood  beside  the  well  her  GOD  had  given 
To  gush  in  that  deep  wilderness,  and  bathed 
The  forehead  of  her  child  until  he  laughed 
In  his  reviving  happiness,  and  lisped 
His  infant  thought  of  gladness  at  the  sight 
Of  the  cool  plashing  of  his  mother's  hand. 


PARRHASIUS. 

"  PARRHASIUS,  a  painter  of  Athens,  among  those  Olynthian  captives 
PHILIP  of  Macedon  brought  home  to  sell,  bought  one  very  old  man  5 
and  when  he  had  him  at  his  house,  put  him  to  death  with  extreme 
torture  and  torment,  the  better,  by  his  example,  to  express  the  pains 
and  passions  of  his  PROMETHEUS,  whom  he  was  then  about  to  paint." 
— BURTON'S  Anatomy  of  Melancholy. 

'  I  ^HERE  stood  an  unsold  captive  in  the  mart, 

A  gray-haired  and  majestical  old  man, 
Chained  to  a  pillar.      It  was  almost  night, 
And  the  last  seller  from  his  place  had  gone ; 
And  not  a  sound  was  heard,  but  of  a  dog 
Crunching  beneath  the  stall  a  refuse  bone, 
Or  the  dull  echo  from  the  pavement  rung, 
As  the  faint  captive  changed  his  weary  feet. 
He  had  stood  there  since  morning,  and  had  borne 
From  every  eye  in  Athens  the  cold  gaze 
Of  curious  scorn.      The  Jew  had  taunted  him 
For  an  Olynthian  slave.      The  buyer  came, 
And  roughly  struck  his  palm  upon  his  breast, 
And  touched  his  unhealed  wounds,  and  with  a  sneer 
Passed  on ;   and  when,  with  weariness  o'erspent, 
He  bowed  his  head  in  a  forgetful  sleep, 


WILLIS.  331 

The  inhuman  soldier  smote  him,  and,  with  threats 
Of  torture  to  his  children,  summoned  back 
The  ebbing  blood  into  his  pallid  face. 

'Twas  evening,  and  the  half-descended  sun 
Tipped  with  a  golden  fire  the  many  domes 
Of  Athens,  and  a  yellow  atmosphere 
Lay  rich  and  dusky  in  the  shaded  street 
Through  which  the  captive  gazed.     He  had  borne  up 
With  a  stout  heart  that  long  and  weary  day, 
Haughtily  patient  of  his  many  wrongs ; 
But  now  he  was  alone,  and  from  his  nerves 
The  needless  strength  departed,  and  he  leaned 
Prone  on  his  massy  chain,  and  let  his  thoughts 
Throng  on  him  as  they  would.      Unmarked  of  him, 
PARRHASIUS  at  the  nearest  pillar  stood, 
Gazing  upon  his  grief.      The  Athenian's  cheek 
Flushed  as  he  measured  with  a  painter's  eye 
The  moving  picture.     The  abandoned  limbs, 
Stained  with  the  oozing  blood,  were  laced  with  veins 
Swollen  to  purple  fulness ;  the  gray  hair, 
Thin  and  disordered,  hung  about  his  eyes ; 
And,  as  a  thought  of  wilder  bitterness 
Rose  in  his  memory,  his  lips  grew  white, 
And  the  fast  workings  of  his  bloodless  face 
Told  what  a  tooth  of  fire  was  at  his  heart. 


The  golden  light  into  the  painter's  room 
Streamed  richly,  and  the  hidden  colours  stole 
From  the  dark  pictures  radiantly  forth, 
And  in  the  soft  and  dewy  atmosphere 
Like  forms  and  landscapes  magical  they  lay. 


332  G  OLD  EN  LEAVE  S. 

The  walls  were  hung  with  armour,  and  about 

In  the  dim  corners  stood  the  sculptured  forms 

Of  CYTHERIS,  and  DIAN,  and  stern  JOVE, 

And  from  the  casement  soberly  away 

Fell  the  grotesque  long  shadows,  full  and  true, 

And,  like  a  veil  of  filmy  mellowness, 

The  lint-specks  floated  in  the  twilight  air. 

PARRHASIUS  stood,  gazing  forgetfully 

Upon  his  canvas.     There  PROMETHEUS  lay, 

Chained  to  the  cold  rocks  of  Mount  Caucasus — 

The  vulture  at  his  vitals,  and  the  links 

Of  the  lame  Lemnian  festering  in  his  flesh ; 

And,  as  the  painter's  mind  felt  through  the  dim, 

Rapt  mystery,  and  plucked  the  shadows  forth 

With  its  far-reaching  fancy,  and  with  form 

And  colour  clad  them,  his  fine,  earnest  eye 

Flashed  with  a  passionate  fire,  and  the  quick  curl 

Of  his  thin  nostril,  and  his  quivering  lip, 

Were  like  the  winged  god's,  breathing  from  his  flight. 

"  Bring  me  the  captive  now  ! 
My  hand  feels  skilful,  and  the  shadows  lift 
From  my  waked  spirit  airily  and  swift, 

And  I  could  paint  the  bow 
Upon  the  bended  heavens — around  me  play 
Colours  of  such  divinity  to-day. 

"  Ha  !  bind  him  on  his  back  ! 
Look  ! — as  PROMETHEUS  in  my  picture  here  ! 
Quick — or  he  faints  ! — stand  with  the  cordial  near  ! 

Now — bend  him  to  the  rack  ! 
Press  down  the  poisoned  links  into  his  flesh  ! 
And  tear  agape  that  healing  wound  afresh  ! 


WILLIS.  333 


"  So— let  him  writhe  !      How  long 
Will  he  live  thus?     Quick,  my  good  pencil,  now  ! 
What  a  fine  agony  works  upon  his  brow  ! 

Ha  !  gray-haired,  and  so  strong  ! 
How  fearfully  he  stifles  that  short  moan  ! 
Gods !   if  I  could  but  paint  a  dying  groan  ! 

"  '  Pity'  thee  !     So  I  do  ! 
I  pity  the  dumb  victim  at  the  altar — 
But  does  the  robed  priest  for  his  pity  falter  ? 

I'd  rack  thee,  though  I  knew 
A  thousand  lives  were  perishing  in  thine  ! — 
What  were  ten  thousand  to  a  fame  like  mine  ? 

"  '  Hereafter  !'  Ay— hereafter  ! 
A  whip  to  keep  a  coward  to  his  track  ! 
What  gave  Death  ever  from  his  kingdom  back 

To  check  the  sceptic's  laughter  ? 
Come  from  the  grave  to-morrow  with  that  story  — 
And  I  may  take  some  softer  path  to  glory. 

"  No,  no,  old  man  !  we  die 
Even  as  the  flowers,  and  we  shall  breathe  away 
Our  life  upon  the  chance  wind,  even  as  they  ! 

Strain  well  thy  fainting  eye — 
For  when  that  bloodshot  quivering  is  o'er, 
The  light  of  heaven  will  never  reach  thee  more. 

"Yet  there's  a  deathless  name! 
A  spirit  that  the  smothering  vault  shall  spurn, 
And  like  a  steadfast  planet  mount  and  burn  ! — 

And  though  its  crown  of  flame 
Consumed  my  brain  to  ashes  as  it  shone. 
By  all  the  fiery  stars !   I'd  bind  it  on  ! 


334  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

"  Ay — though  it  bid  me  rifle 
My  heart's  last  fount  for  its  insatiate  thirst — 
Though  every  life-strung  nerve  be  maddened  first — 

Though  it  should  bid  me  stifle 
The  yearning  in  my  throat  for  my  sweet  child, 
And  taunt  its  mother  till  my  brain  went  wild — 

"  All— I  would  do  it  ail- 
Sooner  than  die,  like  a  dull  worm  to  rot — 
Thrust  foully  into  earth  to  be  forgot ! 

O  heavens  ! — but  I  appal 

Your  heart,  old  man  !   forgive Ha  !   on  your  lives, 

Let  him  not  faint ! — rack  him  till  he  revives  ! 

"  Vain — vain  ! — give  o'er.      His  eye 
Glazes  apace.      He  does  not  feel  you  now — 
Stand  back  !   I'll  paint  the  death-dew  on  his  brow  ! 

Gods !  if  he  do  not  die 
But  for  one  moment — one — till  I  eclipse 
Conception  with  the  scorn  of  those  calm  lips  ! 

"Shivering!      Hark!  he  mutters 
Brokenly  now — that  was  a  difficult  breath — 
Another  !      Wilt  thou  never  come,  O  Death  ? 

Look  !  how  his  temple  flutters ! 
Is  his  heart  still  ?    Aha  !  lift  up  his  head  ! 
He  shudders — gasps — JOVE  help  him  ! — so — he's  dead." 

******* 

How  like  a  mounting  devil  in  the  heart 
Rules  the  unreined  ambition  !     Let  it  once 
But  play  the  monarch,  and  its  haughty  brow 
Glows  with  a  beauty  that  bewilders  thought 
And  unthrones  peace  forever.      Putting  on 


WILLIS.  335 

The  very  pomp  of  LUCIFER,  it  turns 

The  heart  to  ashes,  and  with  not  a  spring 

Left  in  the  bosom  for  the  spirit's  lip, 

We  look  upon  our  splendour  and  forget 

The  thirst  of  which  we  perish  !      Yet  hath  life 

Many  a  falser  idol.      There  are  hopes 

Promising  well ;  and  love-touched  dreams  for  some ; 

And  passions,  many  a  wild  one  ;  and  fair  schemes 

For  gold  and  pleasure  —yet  will  only  this 

Balk  not  the  soul — Ambition  only,  gives, 

Even  of  bitterness,  a  beaker  full ! 

Friendship  is  but  a  slow-awaking  dream, 

Troubled  at  best — Love  is  a  lamp  unseen, 

Burning  to  waste,  or,  if  its  light  is  found, 

Nursed  for  an  idle  hour,  then  idly  broken — 

Gain  is  a  grovelling  care,  and  Folly  tires, 

And  Quiet  is  a  hunger  never  fed  : 

And  from  Love's  very  bosom,  and  from  Gain, 

Or  Folly,  or  a  Friend,  or  from  Repose — 

From  all  but  keen  Ambition — will  the  soul 

Snatch  the  first  moment  of  forgetful  ness 

To  wander  like  a  restless  child  away. 

Oh,  if  there  were  not  better  hopes  than  these — 

Were  there  no  palm  beyond  a  feverish  fame — 

If  the  proud  wealth  flung  back  upon  the  heart 

Must  canker  in  its  coffers — if  the  links 

Falsehood  hath  broken  will  unite  no  more — 

If  the  deep  yearning  Love,  that  hath  not  found 

Its  like  in  the  cold  world,  must  waste  in  tears — 

If  Truth,  and  Fervor,  and  Devotedness, 

Finding  no  worthy  altar,  must  return 

And  die  of  their  own  fulness- -if  beyond 


336  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

The  grave  there  is  no  heaven  in  whose  wide  air 

The  spirit  may  find  room,  and  in  the  love 

Of  whose  bright  habitants  the  lavish  heart 

May  spend  itself, — what  thrice-mocked  fools  are  we  ! 


2lnne  C  Cpclj  (JHabeme  Botta). 

THE     BATTLE     OF      LIFE. 

'  I  ^HERE  are  countless  fields  the  green  earth  o'er 

Where  the  verdant  turf  has  been  dyed  with  gore; 
Where  hostile  ranks,  in  their  grim  array, 
With  the  battle's  smoke  have  obscured  the  day ; 
Where  hate  was  stamped  on  each  rigid  face, 
As  foe  met  foe  in  the  death  embrace  ; 
Where  the  groans  of  the  wounded  and  dying  rose, 
Till  the  heart  of  the  listener  with  horror  froze, 
And  the  wide  expanse  of  the  crimsoned  plain 
Was  piled  with  its  heaps  of  uncounted  slain  : 
But  a  fiercer  combat,  a  deadlier  strife, 
Is  that  which  is  waged  in  the  battle  of  life. 
The  hero  that  wars  on  the  tented  field, 
With  his  shining  sword  and  his  burnished  shield, 
Goes  not  alone  with  his  faithful  brand  ; 
Friends  and  comrades  around  him  stand, 
The  trumpets  sound  and  the  war-steeds  neigh 
To  join  in  the  shock  of  the  coming  fray — 
And  he  flies  to  the  onset,  he  charges  the  foe, 
Where  the  bayonets  gleam  and  the  red  tides  flow; 
And  he  bears  his  part  in  the  conflict  dire 
With  an  arm  all  nerve  and  a  heart  all  fire. 


MADAME    BOTTA.  337 

What  though  he  fall  ?—*•  at  the  battle's  close, 
In  the  flush  of  the  victory  won  he  goes, 
With  martial  music  and  waving  plume, 
From  a  field  of  fame  to  a  laurelled  tomb. 
But  the  hero  who  wars  in  the  battle  of  life, 
Must  stand  alone  in  the  fearful  strife ; 
Alone  in  his  weakness  or  strength  must  go, 
Hero  or  craven,  to  meet  the  foe  : 
He  may  not  fly  on  that  fatal  field — 
He  must  win  or  lose,  he  must  conquer  or  yield. 

Warrior,  who  comest  to  this  battle  now 
With  a  careless  step  and  a  thoughtless  brow, 
As  if  the  field  were  already  won — 
Pause  and  gird  all  thine  armour  on ; 
Myriads  have  come  to  this  battle-ground 
With  a  valiant  arm  and  a  name  renowned, 
And  have  fallen  vanquished  to  rise  no  more, 
Ere  the  sun  was  set  or  the  day  half  o'er. 
Dost  thou  bring  with  thee  hither  a  dauntless  will, 
An  ardent  soul  that  no  blast  can  chill  ? 
Thy  shield  of  Faith  hast  thou  tried  and  proved — 
Canst  thou  say  to  the  mountain,  "  Be  thou  moved  ?" 
In  thy  hand  does  the  sword  of  Truth  flame  bright  ? 
Is  thy  banner  emblazoned,  "  For  GOD  and  the  right  ?" 
In  the  might  of  prayer  dost  thou  strive  and  plead  ? 
Never  had  warrior  greater  need  ! 
Unseen  foes  in  thy  pathway  hide ; 
Thou  art  encompassed  on  every  side. 
There  Pleasure  waits  with  her  siren  train, 
Her  poison  flowers  and  her  hidden  chain ; 
Hope  with  her  Dead-Sea  fruits  is  there ; 
Sin  is  spreading  her  gilded  snare ; 


338  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Flattery  counts  with  her  hollow  smiles, 

Passion  with  silvery  tone  beguiles ; 

Love  and  Friendship  their  charmed  spells  weave  ; 

Trust  not  too  deeply — they  may  deceive  ! 

Disease  with  her  ruthless  hand  would  smite, 

And  Care  spread  o'er  thee  a  withering  blight ; 

Hate  and  Envy,  with  visage  black, 

And  the  serpent  Slander,  are  on  thy  track. 

Guilt  and  Falsehood,  Remorse  and  Pride, 

Doubt  and  Despair,  in  thy  pathway  glide ; 

Haggard  Want,  in  her  demon  joy, 

Waits  to  degrade  thee  and  then  destroy  ; 

Palsied  Age  in  the  distance  lies, 

And  watches  his  victim  with  rayless  eyes ; 

And  Death  the  insatiate  is  hovering  near, 

To  snatch  from  thy  grasp  all  thou  holdest  dear. 

No  skill  may  avail  and  no  ambush  hide : 

In  the  open  field  must  the  champion  bide, 

And  face  to  face  and  hand  to  hand 

Alone  in  his  valour  confront  that  band. 

In  war  with  these  phantoms  that  gird  him  round, 
No  limbs  dissevered  may  strew  the  ground  ; 
No  blood  may  flow,  and  no  mortal  ear 
The  groans  of  the  wounded  heart  may  hear, 
As  it  struggles  and  writhes  in  their  dread  control, 
As  the  iron  enters  the  riven  soul : 
But  the  youthful  form  grows  wasted  and  weak, 
And  sunken  and  wan  is  the  rounded  cheek ; 
The  brow  is  furrowed,  but  not  with  years ; 
The  eye  is  dimmed  with  its  secret  tears ; 
And  streaked  with  white  is  the  raven  hair — 
These  are  the  tokens  of  conflict  there. 


WHITTIER.  339 

The  battle  is  over :  the  hero  goes, 
Scarred  and  worn,  to  his  last  repose ; 
He  has  won  the  day,  he  has  conquered  Doom, 
He  has  sunk  unknown  to  his  nameless  tomb ; 
For  the  victor's  glory  no  voices  plead ; 
Fame  has  no  echo  and  earth  no  meed ; 
But  the  guardian  angels  are  hovering  near : 
They  have  watched  unseen  o'er  the  conflict  here, 
And  they  bear  him  now  on  their  wings  away 
To  a  realm  of  peace,  to  a  cloudless  day. 
Ended  now  is  the  earthly  strife, 
And  his  brow  is  crowned  with  the  crown  of  life  ! 


lol)n  ©mnleaf  lUI)itticr. 

MAUD     MULLER. 

iy/TAUD  MULLER,  on  a  summer's  day, 
**"    ^   Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast, — 


340  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

A  wish  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid; 

And  asked  a  draught  from  the  spring  that  flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 

"  Thanks,"  said  the  Judge — "  a  sweeter  draught 
From  a  fairer  hand,  was  never  quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees ; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered  whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 

And  MAUD  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown, 
And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and  brown  ; 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

MAUD  MULLER  looked  and  sighed  :   "  Ah  me  ! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be  ! 


WHITTIER.  341 

"  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

"  My  father  would  wear  a  broadcloth  coat ; 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

"  I'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 

And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  day. 

"  And  I'd  feed  the  hungry,  and  clothe  the  poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  the  door." 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill, 
And  saw  MAUD  MULLER  standing  still. 

"  A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"  And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"  Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay  ! 

"  No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues ; 

"  But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds, 
And  health,  and  quiet,  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters  proud  and  cold, 
And  his  mother  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 
And  MAUD  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 

When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love-tune. 
16 


342  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well, 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go : 

And  sweet  MAUD  MULLER'S  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead  ; 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms, 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover-blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sighed  with  secret  pain, 
"  Ah,  that  I  were  free  again  ! — 

f '  Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day, 

Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 
And  many  children  played  round  her  door. 

But  care,  and  sorrow,  and  childbirth  pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow-lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring-brook  fall 
Over  fhe  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein, 


WHITTIER.  343 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned ; 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty,  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge  ! 

GOD  pity  them  both,  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall : 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  and  pen, 

The  saddest  are  these — "  It  might  have  been  !" 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes ; 

And  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away ! 


344  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 


THE     MERRIMACK. 

OTREAM  of  my  fathers  !  sweetly  still 

^   The  sunset  rays  thy  valley  fill ; 

Poured  slantwise  down  the  long  defile, 

Wave,  wood,  and  spire,  beneath  them  smile. 

I  see  the  winding  Powwow  fold 

The  green  hill  in  its  belt  of  gold, 

And,  following  down  its  wavy  line, 

Its  sparkling  waters  blend  with  thine. 

There's  not  a  tree  upon  thy  side, 

Nor  rock,  which  thy  returning  tide 

As  yet  hath  left  abrupt  and  stark 

Above  thy  evening  water-mark ; 

No  calm  cove  with  its  rocky  hem, 

No  isle  whose  emerald  swells  begem 

Thy  broad,  smooth  current ;  not  a  sail 

Bowed  to  the  freshening  ocean-gale ; 

No  small  boat  with  its  busy  oars, 

Nor  gray  wall  sloping  to  thy  shores ; 

Nor  farmhouse  with  its  maple  shade, 

Or  rigid  poplar  colonnade, 

But  lies  distinct  and  full  in  sight, 

Beneath  this  gush  of  sunset  light. 

Centuries  ago,  that  harbour-bar, 

Stretching  its  length  of  foam  afar, 

And  Salisbury's  beach  of  shining  sand, 

And  yonder  island's  wave-smoothed  strand, 

Saw  the  adventurer's  tiny  sail 

Flit,  stooping  from  the  eastern  gale ; 


WHITTIER  345 

And  o'er  these  woods  and  waters  broke 

The  cheer  from  Britain's  hearts  of  oak, 

As  brightly  on  the  voyager's  eye, 

Weary  of  forest,  sea,  and  sky, 

Breaking  the  dull,  continuous  wood, 

The  MERRIMACK  rolled  down  his  flood ; 

Mingling  that  clear,  pellucid  brook 

Which  channels  vast  Agioochook — 

When  spring-time's  sun  and  shower  unlock 

The  frozen  fountains  of  the  rock, 

And  more  abundant  waters  given 

From  that  pure  lake,  "  The  Smile  of  Heaven," 

Tributes  from  vale  and  mountain-side — 

With  Ocean's  dark,  eternal  tide  ! 

On  yonder  rocky  cape,  which  braves 
The  stormy  challenge  of  the  waves, 
Midst  tangled  vine  and  dwarfish  wood, 
The  hardy  Anglo-Saxon  stood, 
Planting  upon  the  topmost  crag 
The  staff  of  England's  battle-flag ; 
And,  while  from  out  its  heavy  fold 
St.  GEORGE'S  crimson  cross  unrolled, 
Midst  roll  of  drum  and  trumpet-blare, 
And  weapons  brandishing  in  air, 
He  gave  to  that  lone  promontory 
The  sweetest  name  in  all  his  story ; 
Of  her — the  flower  of  Islam's  daughters, 
Whose  harems  look  on  Stamboul's  waters — 
Who,  when  the  chance  of  war  had  bound 
The  Moslem  chain  his  limbs  around, 
Wreathed  o'er  with  silk  that  iron  chain, 
Soothed  with  her  smiles  his  hours  of  pain, 


346  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

And  fondly  to  her  youthful  slave 
A  dearer  gift  than  freedom  gave. 

But  look  !   the  yellow  light  no  more 
Streams  down  on  wave  and  verdant  shore ; 
And  clearly  on  the  calm  air  swells 
The  distant  voice  of  twilight  bells. 
From  Ocean's  bosom,  white  and  thin, 
The  mist  comes  slowly  rolling  in ; 
Hills,  woods,  the  river's  rocky  rim, 
Amidst  the  sea-like  vapour  swim, 
While  yonder  lonely  coast-light,  set 
Within  its  wave-washed  minaret, 
Half-quenched,  a  beamless  star  and  pale, 
Shines  dimly  through  its  cloudy  veil ! 
Vale  of  my  fathers  ! — I  have  stood 
Where  Hudson  rolled  his  lordly  flood ; 
Seen  sunrise  rest  and  sunset  fade 
Along  his  frowning  palisade ; 
Looked  down  the  Appalachian  peak 
On  Juniata's  silver  streak ; 
Have  seen  along  his  valley  gleam 
The  Mohawk's  softly  winding  stream ; 
The  setting  sun,  his  axle  red 
Quench  darkly  in  Potomac's  bed ; 
The  Autumn's  rainbow-tinted  banner 
Hang  lightly  o'er  the  Susquehanna ; 
Yet,  wheresoe'er  his  step  might  be, 
Thy  wandering  child  looked  back  to  thee  ! 
Heard  in  his  dreams  thy  river's  sound 
Of  murmuring  on  its  pebbly  bound, 
The  unforgotten  swell  and  roar 
Of  waves  on  thy  familiar  shore ; 


WIIITTIER.  347 

And  seen,  amidst  the  curtained  gloom 
And  quiet  of  my  lonely  room, 
Thy  sunset  scenes  before  me  pass ; 
As,  in  AGRIPPA'S  magic  glass, 
The  loved  and  lost  arose  to  view, 
Remembered  groves  in  greenness  grew ; 
And  while  the  gazer  leaned  to  trace, 
More  near,  some  old  familiar  face, 
He  wept  to  find  the  vision  flown — 
A  phantom  and  a  dream  alone  ! 


PALESTINE. 

"OLEST  land  of  Judea  !  thrice  hallowed  of  song, 
•*~^  Where  the  holiest  of  memories  pilgrim-like  throng 
In  the  shade  of  thy  palms,  by  the  shores  of  thy  sea, 
On  the  hills  of  thy  beauty,  my  heart  is  with  thee. 

With  the  eye  of  a  spirit  I  look  on  that  shore, 
Where  pilgrim  and  prophet  have  lingered  before ; 
With  the  glide  of  a  spirit  I  traverse  the  sod 
Made  bright  by  the  steps  of  the  angels  of  GOD. 

Lo  !  Bethlehem's  hill-side  before  me  is  seen, 
With  the  mountains  around  and  the  valleys  between; 
There  rested  the  shepherds  of  Judah,  and  there 
The  song  of  the  angels  rose  sweet  on  the  air. 

And  Bethany's  palm-trees  in  beauty  still  throw 
Their  shadows  at  noon  on  the  ruins  below ; 
But  where  are  the  sisters  who  hastened  to  greet 
The  lowly  Redeemer,  and  sit  at  His  feet  ? 


348  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

I  tread  where  the  TWELVE  in  their  wayfaring  trod ; 
I  stand  where  they  stood  with  the  CHOSEN  of  GOD, — 
Where  His  blessings  were  heard  and  His  lessons  were  taught, 
Where  the  blind  were  restored  and  the  healing  was  wrought. 

Oh,  here  with  His  flock  the  sad  Wanderer  came, — 
These  hills  HE  toiled  over  in  grief,  are  the  same  ; 
The  founts  where  HE  drank  by  the  wayside  still  flow, 
And  the  same  airs  are  blowing  which  breathed  on  His  brow. 

And  throned  on  her  hills  sits  Jerusalem  yet, 
But  with  dust  on  her  forehead,  and  chains  on  her  feet ; 
For  the  crown  of  her  pride  to  the  mocker  hath  gone, 
And  the  holy  Shechinah  is  dark  where  it  shone. 

But  wherefore  this  dream  of  the  earthly  abode 
Of  humanity  clothed  in  the  brightness  of  GOD  ? 
Were  my  spirit  but  turned  from  the  outward  and  dim, 
It  could  gaze,  even  now,  on  the  presence  of  HIM. 

Not  in  clouds  and  in  terrors,  but  gentle  as  when, 

In  love  and  in  meekness,  HE  moved  among  men ; 

And  the  voice  which  breathed  peace  to  the  waves  of  the  sea, 

In  the  hush  of  my  spirit  would  whisper  to  me  ! 

And  what  if  my  feet  may  not  tread  where  HE  stood, 
Nor  my  ears  hear  the  dashing  of  Galilee's  flood, 
Nor  my  eyes  see  the  cross  which  HE  bowed  Him  to  bear, 
Nor  my  knees  press  Gethsemane's  garden  of  prayer  ? 

Yet,  Loved  of  the  Father,  Thy  Spirit  is  near 
To  the  meek,  and  the  lowly,  and  penitent  here ; 
And  the  voice  of  Thy  love  is  the  same  even  now 
As  at  Bethany's  tomb,  or  on  Olivet's  brow. 


WHITTIER.  349 

Oh,  the  outward  hath  gone  ! — but,  in  glory  and  power, 
The  SPIRIT  surviveth  the  things  of  an  hour ; 
Unchanged,  undecaying,  its  Pentecost  flame 
On  the  heart's  secret  altar  is  burning  the  same  ! 


THE     BROTHER     OF     MERCY. 


LUCA,  known  of  all  the  town 
As  the  gray  porter  by  the  Pitti  wall 
Where  the  noon  shadows  of  the  gardens  fall, 
Sick  and  in  dolour,  waited  to  lay  down 
His  last  sad  burden,  and  beside  his  mat 
The  barefoot  monk  of  La  Certosa  sat. 

Unseen,  in  square  and  blossoming  garden  drifted, 
Soft  sunset  lights  through  green  Val  d'Arno  sifted  ; 
Unheard,  below  the  living  shuttles  shifted 
Backward  and  forth,  and  wove,  in  love  or  strife, 
In  mirth  or  pain,  the  mottled  web  of  life  ; 
But  when  at  last  came  upward  from  the  street 
Tinkle  of  bell  and  tread  of  measured  feet, 
The  sick  man  started,  strove  to  rise  in  vain, 
Sinking  back  heavily  with  a  moan  of  pain. 
And  the  monk  said  —  "  'Tis  but  the  Brotherhood 
Of  Mercy  going  on  some  errand  good  : 
Their  black  masks  by  the  palace  wall  I  see." 
PIERO  answered  faintly  —  "  Woe  is  me  ! 
This  day  for  the  first  time  in  forty  years 
In  vain  the  bell  hath  sounded  in  my  ears, 
Calling  me  with  my  brethren  of  the  mask, 
Beggar  and  prince  alike,  to  some  new  task 
1  6* 


350  G  OLDEN   LEAVES. 

Of  love  or  pity — haply  from  the  street 

To  bear  a  wretch  plague-stricken,  or,  with  feet 

Hushed  to  the  quickened  ear  and  feverish  brain, 

To  tread  the  crowded  lazaretto's  floors, 

Down  the  long  twilight  of  the  corridors, 
Midst  tossing  arms  and  faces  full  of  pain. 

I  loved  the  work :   it  was  its  own  reward. 
I  never  counted  on  it  to  offset 
My  sins,  which  are  many,  or  make  less  my  debt 

To  the  free  grace  and  mercy  of  our  LORD  ; 
But  somehow,  father,  it  has  come  to  be 
In  these  long  years  so  much  a  part  of  me, 
I  should  not  know  myself  if  lacking  it, 

But  with  the  work  the  worker  too  would  die, 
And  in  my  place  some  other  self  would  sit 

Joyful  or  sad — what  matters,  if  not  I  ? 
And  now  all's  over.      Woe  is  me  !" — "  My  son," 
The  monk  said,  soothingly,  "  thy  work  is  done ; 
And  no  more  as  a  servant,  but  the  guest 
Of  GOD,  thou  enterest  thy  eternal  rest. 
No  toil,  no  tears,  no  sorrow  for  the  lost 

Shall  mar  thy  perfect  bliss.      Thou  shalt  sit  down 

Clad  in  white  robes,  and  wear  a  golden  crown 
Forever  and  forever."     PIERO  tossed 
On  his  sick  pillow  :   "  Miserable  me  ! 
I  am  too  poor  for  such  grand  company ; 
The  crown  would  be  too  heavy  for  this  gray 
Old  head ;  and,  GOD  forgive  me  if  I  say, 
It  would  be  hard  to  sit  there  night  and  day, 
Like  an  image  in  the  Tribune,  doing  naught 
With  these  hard  hands,  that  all  my  life  have  wrought, 
Not  for  bread  only,  but  for  pity's  sake. 


WHITTIER.  351 

I'm  dull  at  prayers :  I  could  not  keep  awake, 
Counting  my  beads.      Mine's  but  a  crazy  head, 
Scarce  worth  the  saving  if  all  else  be  dead. 
And  if  one  goes  to  heaven  without  a  heart, 
GOD  knows  he  leaves  behind  his  better  part. 
I  love  my  fellow-men  :   the  worst  I  know 
I  would  do  good  to.      Will  death  change  me  so 
That  I  shall  sit  among  the  lazy  saints, 
Turning  a  deaf  ear  to  the  sore  complaints 
Of  souls  that  suffer  ?     Why,  I  never  yet 
Left  a  poor  dog  in  the  Strada  hard  beset, 
Or  ass  o'erladen  !     Must  I  rate  man  less 
Than  dog  or  ass,  in  holy  selfishness  ? 
Methinks  (LORD,  pardon,  if  the  thought  be  sin  !) 
The  world  of  pain  were  better,  if  therein 
One's  heart  might  still  be  human,  and  desires 
Of  natural  pity  drop  upon  its  fires 
Some  cooling  tears." 

Thereat  the  pale  monk  crossed 

His  brow,  and  muttering — "  Madman  !   thou  art  lost !" 
Took  up  his  pyx  and  fled ;  and,  left  alone, 
The  sick  man  closed  his  eyes  with  a  great  groan 
That  sank  into  a  prayer — "  Thy  will  be  done  !" 

Then  was  he  made  aware,  by  soul  or  ear, 

Of  somewhat  pure  and  holy  bending  o'er  him, 
And  of  a  voice  like  that  of  her  who  bore  him, 
Tender  and  most  compassionate  :   "  Be  of  cheer  ! 
For  heaven  is  love,  as  GOD  himself  is  love  : 
Thy  work  below  shall  be  thy  work  above." 
And  when  he  looked,  lo  !  in  the  stern  monk's  place 
He  saw  the  shining  of  an  angel's  face  ! 


352  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 


33.  Street. 


A     FOREST     WALK. 

A     LOVELY  sky,  a  cloudless  sun, 

A  wind  that  breathes  of  leaves  and  flowers, 
O'er  hill,  through  dale,  my  steps  have  won, 

To  the  cool  forest's  shadowy  bowers  ; 
One  of  the  paths  all  round  that  wind, 

Traced  by  the  browsing  herds,  I  choose, 
And  sights  and  sounds  of  human  kind 

In  Nature's  lone  recesses  lose. 
The  beech  displays  its  marbled  bark, 

The  spruce  its  green  tent  stretches  wide, 
While  scowls  the  hemlock,  grim  and  dark, 

The  maple's  scalloped  dome  beside  : 
All  weave  on  high  a  verdant  roof^ 
That  keeps  the  very  sun  aloof, 
Making  a  twilight  soft  and  green 
Within  the  columned,  vaulted  scene. 

Sweet  forest-odours  have  their  birth 

From  the  clothed  boughs  and  teeming  earth  : 

Where  pine-cones  dropped,  leaves  piled  and  dead, 
Long  tufts  of  grass,  and  stars  of  fern, 
With  many  a  wild  flower's  fairy  urn, 

A  thick,  elastic  carpet  spread  ; 
Here,  with  its  mossy  pall,  the  trunk, 
Resolving  into  soil,  is  sunk  • 
There,  wrenched  but  lately  from  its  throne, 

By  some  fierce  whirlwind  circling  past, 
Its  huge  roots  massed  with  earth  and  stone, 

One  of  the  woodland  kings  is  cast. 


STREET. 

Above,  the  forest-tops  are  bright 
With  the  broad  blaze  of  sunny  light : 
But  now  a  fitful  air-gust  parts 

The  screening  branches,  and  a  glow 
Of  dazzling,  startling  radiance  darts 

Down  the  dark  stems,  and  breaks  below ; 
The  mingled  shadows  off  are  rolled, 
.  The  sylvan  floor  is  bathed  in  gold  : 
Low  sprouts  and  herbs,  before  unseen, 
Display  their  shades  of  brown  and  green ; 
Tints  brighten  o'er  the  velvet  moss, 
Gleams  twinkle  on  the  laurel's  gloss ; 
The  robin,  brooding  in  her  nest, 
Chirps  as  the  quick  ray  strikes  her  breast ; 
And,  as  my  shadow  prints  the  ground, 
I  see  the  rabbit  upward  bound, 
With  pointed  ears  an  instant  look, 
Then  scamper  to  the  darkest  nook, 
Where,  with  crouched  limb  and  staring  eye, 
He  watches  while  I  saunter  by. 

A  narrow  vista,  carpeted 

With  rich  green  grass,  invites  my  tread ; 

Here  showers  the  light  in  golden  dots, 

There  sleeps  the  shade  in  ebon  spots, 

So  blended,  that  the  very  air 

Seems  network  as  I  enter  there. 

The  partridge,  whose  deep-rolling  drum 

Afar  has  sounded  on  my  ear, 
Ceasing  his  beatings  as  I  come, 

Whirrs  to  the  sheltering  branches  near; 
The  little  milk-snake  glides  away, 


354  G  OLDEN  LEA  V ES. 

The  brindled  marmot  dives  from  day ; 
And  now,  between  the  boughs,  a  space 
Of  the  blue,  laughing  sky  I  trace : 
On  each  side  shrinks  the  bowery  shade ; 
Before  me  spreads  an  emerald  glade ; 
The  sunshine  steeps  its  grass  and  moss, 
That  couch  my  footsteps  as  I  cross ; 
Merrily  hums  the  tawny  bee, 
The  glittering  humming-bird  I  see  ; 
Floats  the  bright  butterfly  along, 
The  insect  choir  is  loud  in  song : 
A  spot  of  light  and  life,  it  seems 
A  fairy  haunt  for  fancy  dreams. 

Here  stretched,  the  pleasant  turf  I  press, 
In  luxury  of  idleness ; 
Sun-streaks,  and  glancing  wings,  and  sky, 
Spotted  with  cloud-shapes,  charm  my  eye ; 
While  murmuring  grass,  and  waving  trees, 
Their  leaf-harps  sounding  to  the  breeze, 
And  water-tones  that  tinkle  near, 
Blend  their  sweet  music  to  my  ear ; 
And  by  the  changing  shades  alone 
The  passage  of  the  hours  is  known. 


THE     GRAY     FOREST-EAGLE. 

T1C7ITH  storm-daring  pinion  and  sun-gazing  eye, 

The  gray  forest-eagle  is  king  of  the  sky  ! 
Oh,  little  he  loves  the  green  valley  of  flowers, 
Where  sunshine  and  song  cheer  the  bright  summer  hours 


STREET.  355 

For  he  hears  in  those  haunts  only  music,  and  sees 

Only  rippling  of  waters  and  waving  of  trees ; 

There  the  red  robin  warbles,  the  honey-bee  hums, 

The  timid  quail  whistles,  the  sly  partridge  drums ; 

And  if  those  proud  pinions,  perchance,  sweep  along, 

There's  a  shrouding  of  plumage,  a  hushing  of  song ; 

The  sunlight  falls  stilly  on  leaf  and  on  moss, 

And  there's  naught  but  his  shadow  black  gliding  across : 

But  the  dark,  gloomy  gorge,  where  down  plunges  the  foam 

Of  the  fierce,  rock-lashed  torrent,  he  claims  as  his  home ; 

There  he  blends  his  keen  shriek  with  the  roar  of  the  flood, 

And  the  many-voiced  sounds  of  the  blast-smitten  wood; 

From  the  crag-grasping  fir-top,  where  Morn  hangs  its  wreath, 

He  views  the  mad  waters  white  writhing  beneath ; 

On  a  limb  of  that  moss-bearded  hemlock  far  down, 

With  bright  azure  mantle  and  gay  mottled  crown, 

The  kingfisher  watches,  where  o'er  him  his  foe, 

The  fierce  hawk,  sails  circling,  each  moment  more  low : 

Now  poised  are  those  pinions  and  pointed  that  beak, 

His  dread  swoop  is  ready,  when,  hark  !  with  a  shriek, 

His  eye-balls  red-blazing,  high  bristling  his  crest, 

His  snake-like  neck  arched,  talons  drawn  to  his  breast, 

With  the  rush  of  the  wind-gust,  the  glancing  of  light, 

The  gray  forest-eagle  shoots  down  in  his  flight ; 

One  blow  of  those  talons,  one  plunge  of  that  neck, 

The  strong  hawk  hangs  lifeless,  a  blood-dripping  wreck ; 

And  as  dives  the  free  kingfisher,  dart -like  on  high 

With  his  prey  soars  the  eagle,  and  melts  in  the  sky. 

A  fitful  red  glaring,  a  low,  rumbling  jar, 

Proclaim  the  storm-demon  yet  raging  afar : 

The  black  cloud  strides  upward,  the  lightning  more  red, 


356  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

And  the  roll  of  the  thunder  more  deep  and  more  dread ; 
A  thick  pall  of  darkness  is  cast  o'er  the  air, 
And  on  bounds  the  blast  with  a  howl  from  its  lair  : 
The  lightning  darts  zig-zag  and  forked  through  the  gloom, 
And  the  bolt  launches  o'er  with  crash,  rattle,  and  boom  ! 
The  gray  forest-eagle,  where,  where  has  he  sped  ? 
Does  he  shrink  to  his  eyry,  and  shiver  with  dread  ? 
Does  the  glare  blind  his  eye  ?     Has  the  terrible  blast 
On  the  wing  of  the  sky-king  a  fear-fetter  cast  ? 
No,  no,  the  brave  eagle  ! — he  thinks  not  of  fright ; 
The  wrath  of  the  tempest  but  rouses  delight ; 
To  the  flash  of  the  lightning  his  eye  casts  a  gleam, 
To  the  shriek  of  the  wild  blast  he  echoes  his  scream, 
And  with  front  like  a  warrior  that  speeds  to  the  fray, 
And  a  clapping  of  pinions,  he's  up  and  away  ! 
Away,  oh,  away,  soars  the  fearless  and  free  ! 
What  recks  he  the  sky's  strife  ? — its  monarch  is  he  ! 
The  lightning  darts  round  him,  undaunted  his  sight, 
The  blast  sweeps  against  him,  unwavered  his  flight ; 
High  upward,  still  upward,  he  wheels,  till  his  form 
Is  lost  in  the  black,  scowling  gloom  of  the  storm. 

The  tempest  sweeps  o'er  with  its  terrible  train, 

And  the  splendour  of  sunshine  is  glowing  again ; 

Again  smiles  the  soft,  tender  blue  of  the  sky, 

Waked  bird-voices  warble,  fanned  leaf-voices  sigh ; 

On  the  green  grass  dance  shadows,  streams  sparkle  and  run, 

The  breeze  bears  the  odour  its  flower-kiss  has  won, 

And  full  on  the  form  of  the  demon  in  flight 

The  rainbow's  magnificence  gladdens  the  sight ! 

The  gray  forest-eagle  !   oh,  where  is  he  now, 

While  the  skv  wears  the  smile  of  its  GOD  on  its  brow  ? 


STREET.  357 

There's  a  dark,  floating  spot  by  yon  cloud's  pearly  wreath, 
With  the  speed  of  the  arrow  'tis  shooting  beneath  ! 
Down,  nearer  and  nearer  it  draws  to  the  gaze, 
Now  over  the  rainbow,  now  blent  with  its  blaze, 
To  a  shape  it  expands,  still  it  plunges  through  air, 
A  proud  crest,  a  fierce  eye,  a  broad  wing  are  there ; 
'Tis  the  eagle — the  gray  forest-eagle — once  more 
He  sweeps  to  his  eyry :   his  journey  is  o'er  ! 

Time  whirls  round  his  circle,  his  years  roll  away, 

But  the  gray  forest-eagle  minds  little  nis  sway ; 

The  child  spurns  its  buds  for  youth's  thorn-hidden  bloom, 

Seeks  manhood's  bright  phantoms,  finds  age  and  a  tomb ; 

But  the  eagle's  eye  dims  not,  his  wing  is  unbowed, 

Still  drinks  he  the  sunshine,  still  scales  he  the  cloud ; 

The  green  tiny  pine-shrub  points  up  from  the  moss, 

The  wren's  foot  would  cover  it,  tripping  across ; 

The  beech-nut  down  dropping  would  crush  it  beneath, 

But  'tis  warmed  with  heaven's  sunshine,  and  fanned  by  its 

breath ; 

The  seasons  fly  past  it,  its  head  is  on  high, 
Its  thick  branches  challenge  each  mood  of  the  sky ; 
On  its  rough  bark  the 'moss  a  green  mantle  creates, 
And  the  deer  from  his  antlers  the  velvet-down  grates ; 
Time  withers  its  roots,  it  lifts  sadly  in  air 
A  trunk  dry  and  wasted,  a  top  jagged  and  bare, 
Till  it  rocks  in  the  soft  breeze,  and  crashes  to  earth, 
Its  blown  fragments  strewing  the  place  of  its  birth. 
The  eagle  has  seen  it  up  struggling  to  sight, 
He  has  seen  it  defying  the  storm  in  its  might, 
Then  prostrate,  soil-blended,  with  plants  sprouting  o'er, 
But  the  gray  forest-eagle  is  still  as  of  yore. 


358  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

His  flaming  eye  dims  not,  his  wing  is  unbowed, 
Still  drinks  he  the  sunshine,  still  scales  he  the  cloud  ! 
He  has  seen  from  his  eyry  the  forest  below 
In  bud  and  in  leaf,  robed  with  crimson  and  snow ; 
The  thickets,  deep  wolf-lairs,  the  high  crag  his  throne, 
And  the  shriek  of  the  panther  has  answered  his  own. 
He  has  seen  the  wild  red  man  the  lord  of  the  shades, 
And  the  smoke  of  his  wigwams  curl  thick  in  the  glades ; 
He  has  seen  the  proud  forest  melt  breath-like  away, 
And  the  breast  of  the  earth  lying  bare  to  the  day ; 
He  sees  the  green  meadow-grass  hiding  the  lair, 
And  his  crag-throne  spread  naked  to  sun  and  to  air ; 
And  his  shriek  is  now  answered,  while  sweeping  along, 
By  the  low  of  the  herd  and  the  husbandman's  song; 
He  has  seen  the  wild  red  man  off-swept  by  his  foes, 
And  he  sees  dome  and  roof  where  those  smokes  once  arose ; 
But  his  flaming  eye  dims  not,  his  wing  is  unbowed, 
Still  drinks  he  the  sunshine,  still  scales  he  the  cloud  ! 

An  emblem  of  Freedom,  stern,  haughty,  and  high, 
Is  the  gray  forest-eagle,  that  king  of  the  sky  ! 
It  scorns  the  bright  scenes,  the  gay  places  of  earth — 
By  the  mountain  and  torrent  it  springs  into  birth ; 
There  rocked  by  the  wild  wind,  baptized  in  the  foam, 
It  is  guarded  and  cherished,  and  there  is  its  home  ! 
When  its  shadow  steals  black  o'er  the  empires  of  kings, 
Deep  terror,  deep  heart-shaking  terror  it  brings ; 
Where  wicked  Oppression  is  armed  for  the  weak, 
Then  rustles  its  pinion,  then  echoes  its  shriek ; 
Its  eye  flames  with  vengeance,  it  sweeps  on  its  way, 
And  its  talons  are  bathed  in  the  blood  of  its  prey. 
Oh,  that  eagle  of  Freedom  !   when  cloud  upon  cloud 


COXE.  359 

Swathed  the  sky  of  my  own  native  land  with  a  shroud, 
When  lightnings  gleamed  fiercely,  and  thunderbolts  rung, 
How  proud  to  the  tempest  those  pinions  were  flung ! 
Though  the  wild  blast  of  battle  swept  fierce  through  the  air 
With  darkness  and  dread,  still  the  eagle  was  there ; 
Unquailing,  still  speeding,  his  swift  flight  was  on, 
Till  the  rainbow  of  Peace  crowned  the  victory  won. 
Oh,  that  eagle  of  Freedom  !  age  dims  not  his  eye, 
He  has  seen  Earth's  mortality  spring,  bloom,  and  die  ! 
He  has  seen  the  strong  nations  rise,  flourish,  and  fall ; 
He  mocks  at  Time's  changes,  he  triumphs  o'er  all : 
He  has  seen  our  own  land  with  wild  forests  o'erspread, 
He  sees  it  with  sunshine  and  joy  on  its  head ; 
And  his  presence  will  bless  this,  his  own  chosen  clime, 
Till  the  archangel's  fiat  is  set  upon  time. 


€let)danb 


THE     CHIMES     OF     ENGLAND. 

'  I  "*HE  chimes,  the  chimes  of  Motherland, 

Of  England,  green  and  old, 
That  out  from  fane  and  ivied  tower 

A  thousand  years  have  tolled  ; 
How  glorious  must  their  music  be 

As  breaks  the  hallowed  day, 
And  calleth  with  a  seraph's  voice 

A  nation  up  to  pray  ! 

Those  chimes  that  tell  a  thousand  tales, 
Sweet  tales  of  olden  time  ! 


360  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

And  ring  a  thousand  memories 

At  vesper,  and  at  prime ; 
At  bridal  and  at  burial, 

For  cottager  and  king — 
Those  chimes — those  glorious  Christian  chimes, 

How  blessedly  they  ring  ! 

Those  chimes,  those  chimes  of  Motherland, 

Upon  a  Christmas  morn, 
Outbreaking,  as  the  angels  did, 

For  a  Redeemer  born ; 
How  merrily  they  call  afar, 

To  cot  and  baron's  hall, 
With  holly  decked  and  mistletoe, 

To  keep  the  festival ! 

The  chimes  of  England,  how  they  peal 

From  tower  and  Gothic  pile, 
Where  hymn  and  swelling  anthem  fill 

The  dim  cathedral  aisle ; 
Where  windows  bathe  the  holy  light 

On  priestly  heads  that  falls, 
And  stain  the  florid  tracery 

And  banner-dighted  walls ! 

And  then,  those  Easter  bells,  in  Spring, 

Those  glorious  Easter  chimes ; 
How  loyally  they  hail  thee  round, 

Old  queen  of  holy  times ! 
From  hill  to  hill,  like  sentinels, 

Responsively  they  cry, 
And  sing  the  rising  of  the  LORD, 

From  vale  to  mountain  high. 


COZE.  361 

I  love  ye,  chimes  of  Motherland, 

With  all  this  soul  of  mine, 
And  bless  the  LORD  that  I  am  sprung 

Of  good  old  English  line  ! 
And,  like  a  son,  I  sing  the  lay 

That  England's  glory  tells ; 
For  she  is  lovely  to  the  LORD, 

For  you,  ye  Christian  bells  ! 

And  heir  of  her  ancestral  fame, 

And  happy  in  my  birth, 
Thee  too  I  love,  my  forest-land, 

The  joy  of  all  the  earth ; 
For  thine  thy  mother's  voice  shall  be, 

And  here — where  GOD  is  King — 
With  English  chimes,  from  Christian  spires, 

The  wilderness  shall  ring. 


OLD     CHURCHES. 

TTAST  been  where  the  full-blossomed  bay-tree  is  blowing, 

A          With  odours  like  Eden's  around  ? 

Hast  seen  where  the  broad-leaved  palmetto  is  growing, 

And  wild  vines  are  fringing  the  ground  ? 
Hast  sat  in  the  shade  of  catalpas,  at  noon, 

And  ate  the  cool  gourds  of  their  clime  ; 
Or  slept  where  magnolias  were  screening  the  moon, 

And  the  mocking-bird  sung  her  sweet  rhyme  ? 

And  didst  mark  in  thy  journey,  at  dew-dropping  eve, 
Some  ruin  peer  high  o'er  thy  way, 


2  G  OLDEN   LEAVES. 

With  rooks  wheeling  round  it,  and  bushes  to  weave 

A  mantle  for  turrets  so  gray  ? 
Did  ye  ask  if  some  lord  of  the  cavalier  kind 

Lived  there,  when  the  country  was  young  ? 
And  burned  not  the  blood  of  a  Christian,  to  find 

How  there  the  old  prayer-bell  had  rung  ? 

And  did  ye  not  glow  when  they  told  ye — the  LORD 

Had  dwelt  in  that  thistle-grown  pile ; 
And  that  bones  of  old  Christians  were  under  its  sward, 

That  once  had  knelt  down  in  its  aisle  ? 
And  had  ye  no  tear-drops  your  blushes  to  steep 

When  ye  thought — o'er  your  country  so  broad,, 
The  bard  seeks  in  vain  for  a  mouldering  heap, 

Save  only  these  churches  of  GOD  ! 

O  ye  that  shall  pass  by  those  ruins  agen, 

Go  kneel  in  their  alleys  and  pray, 
And  not  till  their  arches  have  echoed  "Amen  !" 

Rise  up,  and  fare  on  in  your  way ; 
Pray  GOD  that  those  aisles  may  be  crowded  once  more, 

Those  altars  surrounded  and  spread, 
While  anthems  and  prayers  are  upsent  as  of  yore, 

As  they  take  of  the  wine-cup  and  bread. 

Ay,  pray  on  thy  knees,  that  each  old  rural  fane 

They  have  left  to  the  bat  and  the  mole, 
May  sound  with  the  loud-pealing  organ  again, 

And  the  full  swelling  voice  of  the  soul. 
Peradventure,  when  next  thou  shalt  journey  thereby, 

Even-bells  shall  ring  out  on  the  air, 
And  the  dim-lighted  windows  reveal  to  thine  eye 

The  snowy-robed  pastor  at  prayer. 


BENJAMIN.  363 


Benjamin. 

GOLD. 

*'  GOLD  is,  in  its  last  analysis,  the  sweat  of  the  poor  and  the  blood 
of  the  brave."  —  JOSEPH   NAPOLEON. 

TTT'ASTE  treasure  like  water,  ye  noble  and  great  ! 

Spend  the  wealth  of  the  world  to  increase  your  estate  ; 
Pile  up  your  temples  of  marble,  and  raise 
Columns  and  domes,  that  the  people  may  gaze 
And  wonder  at  beauty,  so  gorgeously  shown 
By  subjects  more  rich  than  the  king  on  his  throne. 
Lavish  and  squander  —  for  why  should  ye  save 
<e  The  sweat  of  the  poor  and  the  blood  of  the  brave  !" 

Pour  wine  into  goblets  all  crusted  with  gems  — 

Wear  pearls  on  your  collars  and  pearls  on  your  hems  ; 

Let  diamonds  in  splendid  profusion  outvie 

The  myriad  stars  of  a  tropical  sky  ! 

Though  from  the  night  of  the  fathomless  mine 

These  may  be  dug  at  your  banquet  to  shine, 

Little  care  ye  for  the  chains  of  the  slave, 

"The  sweat  of  the  poor  and  the  blood  of  the  brave." 

Behold,  at  your  gates  stand  the  feeble  and  old  — 
Let  them  burn  in  the  sunshine  and  freeze  in  the  cold  ; 
Let  them  starve  :  though  a  morsel,  a  drop  will  impart 
New  vigour  and  warmth  to  the  limb  and  the  heart  : 
You  taste  not  their  anguish,  you  feel  not  their  pain, 
Your  heads  are  not  bare  to  the  wind  and  the  rain  — 
Must  wretches  like  these  of  your  charity  crave 
"  The  sweat  of  the  poor  and  the  blood  of  the  brave  ?" 


364  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

An  army  goes  out  in  the  morn's  early  light, 

Ten  thousand  gay  soldiers  equipped  for  the  fight ; 

An  army  comes  home  at  the  closing  of  day — 

Oh,  where  are  their  banners,  their  goodly  array  ? 

Ye  widows  and  orphans,  bewail  not  so  loud — 

Your  groans  may  embitter  the  feast  of  the  proud ; 

To  win  for  their  store,  did  the  wild  battle  rave, 

"  The  sweat  of  the  poor  and  the  blood  of  the  brave." 

Gold  !  gold  !  in  all  ages  the  curse  of  mankind, 
Thy  fetters  are  forged  for  the  soul  and  the  mind  : 
The  limbs  may  be  free  as  the  wings  of  a  bird, 
And  the  mind  be  the  slave  of  a  look  and  a  word. 
To  gain  thee,  men  barter  eternity's  crown, 
Yield  honour,  affection,  and  lasting  renown, 
And  mingle  like  foam  with  life's  swift-rushing  wave 
"  The  sweat  of  the  poor  and  the  blood  of  the  brave." 


THE     STORMY     PETREL. 

A  •  ^HIS  is  the  bird  that  sweeps  o'er  the  sea — 

-*-     Fearless  and  rapid  and  strong  is  he ; 
He  never  forsakes  the  billowy  roar, 
To  dwell  in  calm  on  the  tranquil  shore, 
Save  when  his  mate  from  the  tempest's  shocks 
Protects  her  young  in  the  splintered  rocks. 

Birds  of  the  sea,  they  rejoice  in  storms ; 
On  the  top  of  the  wave  you  may  see  their  forms — 
They  run  and  dive,  and  they  whirl  and  fly, 
Where  the  glittering  foam-spray  breaks  on  high ; 


CLARK.  365 

And  against  the  force  of  the  strongest  gale, 
Like  phantom-ships  they  soar  and  sail. 

All  over  the  ocean,  far  from  land, 
When  the  storm-king  rises,  dark  and  grand, 
The  mariner  sees  the  petrel  meet 
The  fathomless  waves  with  steady  feet, 
And  a  tireless  wing  and  a  dauntless  breast, 
Without  a  home  or  a  hope  of  rest. 

So,  mid  the  contest  and  toil  of  life, 
My  soul !  when  the  billows  of  rage  and  strife 
Are  tossing  high,  and  the  heavenly  blue 
Is  shrouded  by  vapours  of  sombre  hue — 
Like  the  petrel  wheeling  o'er  foam  and  spray, 
Onward  and  upward  pursue  thy  way ! 


iDillts  ®aglorJr  Clark. 

A     LAMENT. 

is  a  voice  I  shall  hear  no  more — 
There  are  tones  whose  music  for  me  is  o'er ; 
Sweet  as  the  odours  of  spring  were  they, — 
Precious  and  rich — but  they  died  away ; 
They  came  like  peace  to  my  heart  and  ear — 
Never  again  will  they  murmur  here ; 
They  have  gone  like_the  blush  of  a  summer  morn, 
Like  a  crimson  cloud  through  the  sunset  borne. 

There  were  eyes,  that  late  were  lit  up  for  me, 
Whose  kindly  glance  was  a  joy  to  see ; 

'7 


366  G  OLDEN   LEAVES. 

They  revealed  the  thoughts  of  a  trusting  heart, 

Untouched  by  sorrow,  untaught  by  art ; 

Whose  affections  were  fresh  as  a  stream  of  spring, 

When  birds  in  the  vernal  branches  sing ; 

They  were  filled  with  love  that  hath  passed  with  them, 

And  my  lyre  is  breathing  their  requiem. 

I  remember  a  brow,  whose  serene  repose 
Seemed  to  lend  a  beauty  to  cheeks  of  rose ; 
And  lips  I  remember,  whose  dewy  smile, 
As  I  mused  on  their  eloquent  power  the  while, 
Sent  a  thrill  to  my  bosom,  and  blessed  my  brain 
With  raptures  that  never  may  dawn  again ; 
Amidst  musical  accents  those  smiles  were  shed — 
Alas  for  the  doom  of  the  early  dead ! 

Alas  for  the  clod  that  is  resting  now 

On  those  slumbering  eyes — on  that  fated  brow ! 

Woe  for  the  cheek  that  hath  ceased  to  bloom — 

For  the  lips  that  are  dumb  in  the  noisome  tomb ; 

Their  melody  broken,  their  fragrance  gone, 

Their  aspect  cold  as  the  Parian  stone  ! 

Alas  for  the  hopes  that  with  thee  have  died — 

0  loved  one  !  would  I  were  by  thy  side  !  ,  . 

Yet  the  joy  of  grief  it  is  mine  to  bear ; 

1  hear  thy  voice  in  the  twilight  air; 
Thy  smile,  of  sweetness  untold,  I  see 

When  the  visions  of  evening  are  borne  to  me ; 
Thy  kiss  on  my  dreaming  lip  is  warm — 
My  arm  embraceth  thy  graceful  form ; 
I  wake  in  a  world  that  is  sad  and  drear, 
To  feel  in  my  bosom — thou  art  not  here. 


TUCKER  MAN.  367 

Oh  !  once  the  summer  with  thee  was  bright ; 
The  day,  like  thine  eyes,  wore  a  holy  light. 
THere  was  bliss  in  existence  when  thou  wert  nigh, 
There  was  balm  in  the  evening's  rosy  sigh ; 
Then  earth  was  an  Eden,  and  thou  its  guest — 
A  Sabbath  of  blessings  was  in  my  breast ; 
My  heart  was  full  of  a  sense  of  love, 
Likest  of  all  things  to  heaven  above. 

Now,  thou  art  gone  to  that  voiceless  hall 
Where  my  budding  raptures  have  perished  all ; 
To  that  tranquil  and  solemn  place  of  rest 
Where  the  earth  lies  damp  on  the  sinless  breast ; 
Thy  bright  locks  all  in  the  vault  are  hid, 
Thy  brow  is  concealed  by  the  coffin-lid ; 
All  that  was  lovely  to  me  is  there — 
Mournful  is  life,  and  a  load  to  bear ! 


(Euckerman. 


THE      APOLLO      BELVIDERE. 

THERE  is  a  tradition  at  Rome  that  an  imaginative  French  girl  died 
of  love  for  this  celebrated  statue. 

TT  was  a  day  of  festival  in  Rome, 

*-    And  to  the  splendid  temple  of  her  saint, 

Many  a  brilliant  equipage  swept  on  ; 

Brave  cavaliers  reined  their  impetuous  steeds, 

While  dark-robed  priests  and  bright-eyed  peasants  strolled, 

Through  groups  of  citizens,  in  gay  attire. 


368  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

The  suppliant  moan  of  the  blind  mendicant 
Blent  with  the  huckster's  cry,  the  urchin's  shout, 
The  clash  of  harness,  and  the  festive  cheer. 
Beneath  the  colonnade  ranged  the  Swiss  guards, 
With  polished  halberds — an  anomaly, 
Of  mountain  lineage,  and  yet  hirelings ! 
In  the  midst  rose  the  majestic  obelisk, 
Quarried  in  Egypt,  centuries  by-gone ; 
And,  on  either  side,  gushed  up  refreshingly 
The  lofty  fountains,  flashing  in  the  sun, 
And  breathing,  o'er  the  din,  a  whisper  soft, 
Yet  finely  musical  as  childhood's  laugh. 
Here  a  stranger  stood  in  mute  observance ; 
There  an  artist  leaned,  and  pleased  his  eye 
With  all  the  features  of  the  shifting  scene, 
Striving  to  catch  its  varying  light  and  shade — 
The  mingled  tints  of  brilliancy  and  gloom. 
Through  the  dense  crowd  a  lovely  maiden  pressed 
With  a  calm  brow,  an  eagerness  of  air, 
And  an  eye  exultant  with  high  purpose. 
The  idle  courtier  checked  his  ready  jest, 
And  backward  stepped  in  reverence,  as  she  passed  ; 
The  friar  turned  and  blessed  her  fervently, 
Reading  the  joy  in  her  deep  look  of  love, 
That  visits  pilgrims  when  their  shrine  is  won. 
To  the  rich  chambers  of  the  Vatican 
She  hurried  thoughtfully,  nor  turned  to  muse 
Upon  the  many  glories  clustered  there. 
There  are  rooms  whose  walls  are  radiant  still 
With  the  creations  of  the  early  dead — 
RAPHAEL,  the  gifted  and  the  beautiful ; 
Fit  places  those  for  sweet  imaginings 


TUCKERMAN.  369 

And  spirit-stirring  dreams.      She  entered  not. 

Gems  of  rare  hues  and  cunning  workmanship, 

Ancient  sarcophagi,  heroic  forms, 

Busts  of  the  mighty  conquerors  of  time, 

Stirred  not  a  pulse  in  that  fond  maiden's  heart ; 

She  stayed  not  to  peruse  the  classic  face 

Of  young  AUGUSTUS,  nor  lingered  to  discern 

Benignity  in  TRAJAN'S  countenance ; 

But  sped,  with  fawn-like  and  familiar  step, 

On  to  the  threshold  of  a  cabinet ; 

And  then  her  eye  grew  brighter,  and  a  flush 

Suffused  her  cheek,  as,  awe-subdued,  she  paused, 

And,  throwing  back  the  ringlets  from  her  brow, 

With  a  light  bound  and  rapturous  murmur,  stood 

Before  the  statue  of  the  Grecian  god  : 

"  They  tell  me  thou  art  stone, 

Stern,  passionless,  and  chill, 
Dead  to  the  glow  of  noble  thought, 

And  feeling's  holy  thrill ; 
They  deem  thee  but  a  marble  god, 

The  paragon  of  art, 
A  thing  to  charm  the  sage's  eye, 

But  not  to  win  the  heart. 

"  Vain  as  their  own  light  vows, 

And  soulless  as  their  gaze, 
The  thought  of  quenching  my  deep  love 

By  such  ignoble  praise  !       / 
I  know  that  through  thy  parted  lips 

Language  disdains  to  roll, 
While  on  them  rest  so  gloriously 

The  beamings  of  the  soul. 


37°  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

"  I  dreamed,  but  yesternight, 

That,  gazing,  e'en  as  now, 
Rapt  in  a  wild,  admiring  joy, 

On  thy  majestic  brow — 
That  thy  strong  arm  was  round  me  flung, 

And  drew  me  to  thy  side, 
While  thy  proud  lip  uncurled  in  love, 

And  hailed  me  as  a  bride. 

tf  And  then,  methought,  we  sped, 

Like  thine  own  arrow,  high, 
Through  fields  of  azure,  orbs  of  light, 

Amid  the  boundless  sky : 
Our  way  seemed  walled  with  radiant  gems, 

As  fell  the  starry  gleams, 
And  the  floating  isles  of  pearly  drops 

Gave  back  their  silver  beams. 

"  Sphere-music,  too,  stole  by 

In  the  fragrant  zephyr's  play, 
And  the  hum  of  worlds  boomed  solemnly 

Across  our  trackless  way  : 
Upon  my  cheek  the  wanton  breeze 

Thy  glowing  tresses  flung; 
Like  loving  tendrils,  round  my  neck, 

A  golden  band  they  clung. 

"  Methought  thou  didst  impart  _ 

The  mysteries  of  earth, 
And  whisper  lovingly  the  tale 

Of  thy  celestial  birth  : 
O'er  Poetry's  sublimest  heights 

Exultingly  we  trod ; 


TUC-KERMAN.  371 

Thy  words  were  music — uttering 
The  genius  of  a  god  ! 

"  Proud  one  !   'twas  but  a  dream  ; 

For  here  again  thou  art, 
Thy  marble  bosom  heeding  not 

My  passion-stricken  heart. 
Oh,  turn  that  rapturous  look  on  me, 

And  heave  a  single  sigh — 
Give  but  a  glance,  breathe  but  a  tone, 

One  word  were  ecstasy  ! 

"  Still  mute  ?     Then  must  I  yield  : 

This  fire  will  scathe  my  breast ; 
This  weary  heart  will  throb  itself 

To  an  eternal  rest. 
Yet  still  my  soul  claims  fellowship 

With  the  exalted  grace, 
The  bright  and  thrilling  earnestness, 

The  godlike  in  thy  face. 

"  Thou  wilt  relent  at  last, 

And  turn  thy  love-lit  eye 
In  pity  on  me,  noble  one  ! 

To  bless  me  ere  I  die. 
And  now,  farewell,  my  vine-clad  home, 

Farewell,  immortal  youth  ! 
Let  me  behold  thee  when  Love  calls 

The  martyr  to  her  truth  !" 


372  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 


TO    AN     ELM. 

RAVELY  thy  old  arms  fling 

Their  countless  pennons  to  the  fields  of  air, 
And,  like  a  sylvan  king, 
Their  panoply  of  green  still  proudly  wear. 

As  some  rude  tower  of  old, 
Thy  massive  trunk  still  rears  its  rugged  form, 

With  limbs  of  giant  mould, 
To  battle  sternly  with  the  winter  storm. 

In  Nature's  mighty  fane, 
Thou  art  the  noblest  arch  beneath  the  sky ; 

How  long  the  pilgrim  train 
That  with  a  benison  have  passed  thee  by ! 

Lone  patriarch  of  the  wood  1 
Like  a  true  spirit  thou  dost  freely  rise, 

Of  fresh  and  dauntless  mood, 
Spreading  thy  branches  to  the  open  skies. 

The  locust  knows  thee  well, 
And  when  the  summer  days  his  notes  prolong, 

Hid  in  some  leafy  cell, 
Pours  from  thy  world  of  green  his  drowsy  song. 

Oft,  on  a  morn  in  spring, 
The  yellow-bird  will  seek  thy  waving  spray, 

And  there  securely  swing, 
•  To  whet  his  beak,  and  pour  his  blithesome  lay. 


TUCKERMAN.  373 

How  bursts  thy  monarch  wail, 
When  sleeps  the  pulse  of  Nature's  buoyant  life, 

And,  bared  to  meet  the  gale, 
Wave  thy  old  branches,  eager  for  the  strife ! 

The  sunset  often  weaves 
Upon  thy  crest  a  wreath  of  splendour  rare, 

While  the  fresh-murmuring  leaves 
Fill  with  cool  sound  the  evening's  sultry  air. 

Sacred  thy  roof  of  green 
To  rustic  dance,  and  childhood's  gambols  free : 

Gay  youth  and  age  serene 
Turn  with  familiar  gladness  unto  thee. 

Oh,  hither  should  we  roam, 
To  hear  Truth's  herald  in  the  lofty  shade ; 

Beneath  thy  emerald  dome 
Might  Freedom's  champion  fitly  draw  his  blade. 

With  blessings  at  thy  feet, 
Falls  the  worn  peasant  to  his  noontide  rest ; 

Thy  verdant,  calm  retreat 
Inspires  the  sad  and  soothes  the  troubled  breast. 

When,  at  the  twilight  hour, 
Plays  through  thy  tressil  crown  the  sun's  last  gleam, 

Under  thy  ancient  bower 
The  schoolboy  comes  to  sport,  the  bard  to  dream. 

And  when  the  moonbeams  fall 
Through  thy  broad  canopy  upon  the  grass, 

Making  a  fairy  hall, 
As  o'er  the  sward  the  flitting  shadows  pass — 


374  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Then  lovers  haste  to  thee, 
With  hearts  that  tremble  like  that  shifting  light : 

To  them,  O  brave  old  tree, 
Thou  art  Joy's  shrine — a  temple  of  delight ! 


NEWPORT     BEACH. 

'TpHE  crested  line  of  waves  upheaving  slow, 
-*•     Like  white-plumed  squadrons  in  compact  array, 
Moving  to  launch  their  thunder  on  the  foe, 
Each  gathering  in,  with  hushed  yet  ardent  will, 
Its  strength  of  purpose  ere  the  war-cloud  burst — 
And  with  accumulate  energy  press  on 
Their  foamy  ridges,  to  dissolve  at  last, 
Like  Passion's  billows,  into  gushing  tears, 
Or,  with  an  inarticulate  moan,  expire. 

Wave  after  wave  successively  rolls  on 
And  dies  along  the  shore,  until,  more  loud, 
One  billow  with  concentrate  force  is  heard 
To  swell  prophetic,  and  exultant  rears 
A  lucent  form  above  its  pioneers, 
And  rushes  past  them  to  the  farthest  goal. 
Thus  our  unuttered  feelings  rise  and  fall, 
And  thought  will  follow  thought  in  equal  waves, 
Until  Reflection  nerves  Design  to  will, 
Or  Sentiment  o'er  chance  Emotion  reigns, 
And  all  its  wayward  undulations  blends 
In  one  o'erwhelming  surge  ! 

In  Meditation's  hour  these  waves  recede, 
And  then  appear  the  relics  of  the  soul — 


TUCKERMAN.  375 

Trophies  long  cherished,  fragments  of  wrecked  hopes, 

That,  freshened  by  the  dew  of  memory,  gleam 

Lake  a  mosaic  pavement,  whose  dim  hues 

And  worn  inscriptions  suddenly  grow  clear 

Beneath  reviving  moisture  :  purple  shells 

And  gay  weeds  fleck  the  strand,  like  garlands  torn 

By  fierce  Ambition  from  the  rocks  of  Time, 

To  drift  unheeded  down  Oblivion's  main ; 

And  mystic  characters  indent  the  sands, 

Frail  as  the  records  that  men  love  to  trace, 

With  the  approaching  tide  to  pass  away. 

Like  the  sea,  too,  our  being  ebbs  and  flows, 
From  fountains  unexplored  of  inward  life, 
To  the  world's  sterile  coast,  with  restless  dash 
Chafing  its  bound ;  then  mournfully  sweeps  back, 
To  lapse  in  earnest  consciousness  again. 
For  what  to  thee,  O  thoughtful  soul,  imports 
The  monotone  of  apathetic  days, 
Save  as  the  prelude  to  a  higher  strain, 
In  which  the  symphony  of  Truth  shall  blend 
With  Love's  celestial  anthem  ?     Far  apart 
From  the  insensate  crowd,  thy  real  life, 
Like  the  deep  under-current  of  the  sea, 
Resistless  and  invisible  flows  on : 
Oh,  for  a  human  ear  attuned  to  catch 
Its  muffled  voice,  or  gently  beaming  eyes 
To  pierce,  with  keen  regard,  the  playful  wave, 
And  watch  its  hidden  course  ! 

After  each  tempest,  both  of  mind  and  sea, 
Cometh  tranquillity ;   then  rosy  hues 


376  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Flush  the  horizon  with  a  glow  that  warms 
The  sleeping  flood  like  Hope's  blest  revery, 
And  the  low  ripples,  with  their  soothing  plash, 
Lave  the  gay-tinted  pebbles  till  they  shine 
Like  precious  jewels  in  the  sunset  fire  ; 
And  the  wan  moon  her  slender  crescent  shows, 
A  diadem  benign,  serenely  high, 
While  the  lulled  wave  as  gently  heaves  below 
As  the  fair  bosom  where  is  treasured  up 
Our  heart's  best  life,  and  its  pellucid  depths 
Reflect  the  firmament,  as  truthful  eyes 
With  crystal  softness  mirror  love's  pure  gaze. 

What  pristine  vigour  braces  the  glad  frame 
That  dallies  with  the  breakers,  meets  the  surge, 
And  feels  the  sportive  tossing  of  the  brine  ! 
As  in  the  world's  antagonistic  sphere 
We  wrestle  and  grow  calm,  the  vague  unrest 
That  haunts  impulsive  natures  yields  awhile 
To  -the  encircling  presence  of  the  sea, 
Inviting  thought  to  an  excursive  range, 
And,  with  its  plaintive  or  impetuous  roar, 
Stilling  the  tumult  of  the  eager  heart. 

The  antique  genius  shaped  a  noble  truth, 
In  moulding  APHRODITE  as  she  stands 
Prepared  to  yield  her  beauty  to  the  sea : 
A  winsome  coyness,  half  made  up  of  fear 
And  half  of  love,  betrays  itself  in  grace : 
With  eyes  averted  from  the  tempting  flood, 
She  grasps  her  loosened  hair,  and,  as  the  wave 
Strikes  her  pale  feet,  a  swift  recoil 


TUCKERHAN.  377 

Checks  the  advancing  step,  and  thus  she  broods, 
A  lovely  image  of  subdued  desire, 
Action  and  thought,  that  quiver  and  unite 
In  exquisite  proportion;  thus  we  pause 
Upon  the  brink  of  glory  unachieved, 
Or  sacrifice  resolved — our  hearts  appalled 
By  the  chill  touch  and  drear  infinitude 
Of  Fate's  relentless  tide. 

Thy  breath,  majestic  Sea,  was  native  air, 
And  thy  cool  spray,  like  Nature's  baptism,  fell 
Upon  my  brow,  while  thy  hoarse  summons  called 
My  childhood's  fancy  into  Wonder's  realm. 
Thy  boundless  azure  in  youth's  landscape  shone 
Like  a  vast  talisman,  that  oft  awoke 
Visions  of  distant  climes,  from  weary  round 
Of  irksome  life  to  set  my  spirit  free ; 
And  hence  whene'er  I  greet  thy  face  anew, 
Familiar  tenderness  and  awe  return 
At  the  wild  conjuration ; — fondest  hopes, 
And  penitential  tears,  and  high  resolves, 
Are  born  of  musing  by  the  solemn  deep. 

Then  here,  enfranchised  by  the  voice  of  GOD, 
Oh,  ponder  not,  with  microscopic  eye, 
What  is  adjacent,  limited,  and  fixed ; 
But  with  high  faith  gaze  forth,  and  let  thy  thought 
With  the  illimitable  scene  expand, 
Until  the  bond  of  circumstance  is  rent, 
And  personal  griefs  are  lost  in  visions  wide 
Of  an  eternal  future  !      Far  away 
Where  looms  yon  sail,  that,  like  a  curlew's  wing, 


378  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

Prints  the  gray  sky,  are  moored  enchanted  isles 
Of  unimagined  beauty,  with  soft  airs, 
And  luscious  fruitage,  and  unclouded  stars ; 
Where  every  breeze  wafts  music,  every  path, 
By  flowers  o'erhung,  leads  to  a  home  of  love, 
And  every  life  is  glorified  with  dreams : 
And  thus  beyond  thy  present  destiny, 
Beyond  the  inlet  where  the  waves  of  Time 
Fret  at  their  barren  marge,  there  spreads  a  sea 
More  free  and  tranquil,  where  the  isles  of  peace 
Shall  yield  thy  highest  aspiration  scope, 
And  every  sympathy  response  divine. 


tDtllicmt 


FIFTY     YEARS     AGO. 

A     SONG  for  the  early  times  out  West, 
**•*•       And  our  green  old  forest-home, 
Whose  pleasant  memories  freshly  yet 

Across  the  bosom  come  : 
A  song  for  the  free  and  gladsome  life 

In  those  early  days  we  led, 
With  a  teeming  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  a  smiling  heaven  o'erhead  ! 
Oh,  the  waves  of  life  danced  merrily, 

And  had  a  joyous  flow, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago  ! 


GALLAGHER.  379 

The  hunt,  the  shot,  the  glorious  chase, 

The  captured  elk  or  deer ; 
The  camp,  the  big  bright  fire,  and  then 

The  rich  and  wholesome  cheer; 
The  sweet,  sound  sleep  at  dead  of  night, 

By  our  camp-fire  blazing  high — 
Unbroken  by  the  wolf's  long  howl, 

And  the  panther  springing  by  : 
Oh,  merrily  passed  the  time,  despite 

Our  wily  Indian  foe, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago  ! 

We  shunned  not  labour :  when  'twas  due, 

We  wrought  with  right  good  will ; 
And,  for  the  home  we  won  for  them, 

Our  children  bless  us  still. 
We  lived  not  hermit  lives,  but  oft 

In  social  converse  met ; 
And  fires  of  love  were  kindled  then 

That  burn  on  warmly  yet. 
Oh,  pleasantly  the  stream  of  life 

Pursued  its  constant  flow, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago ! 

We  felt  that  we  were  fellow-men ; 

We  felt  we  were  a  band 
Sustained  here  in  the  wilderness 

By  Heaven's  upholding  hand. 
And  when  the  solemn  Sabbath  came, 

We  gathered  in  the  wood, 


380  G  OLDEN  LEAVE  S. 

And  lifted  up  our  hearts  in  prayer 

To  GOD,  the  only  good. 
Our  temples  then  were  earth  and  sky ; 

None  others  did  we  know 
In  the  days  when  we  were  pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago  ! 

Our  forest  life  was  rough  and  rude, 

And  dangers  closed  us  round ; 
But  here,  amid  the  green  old  trees, 

Freedom  we  sought  and  found. 
Oft  through  our  dwellings  wintry  blasts 

Would  rush  with  shriek  and  moan ; 
We  cared  not — though  they  were  but  frail, 

We  felt  they  were  our  own  ! 
Oh,  free  and  manly  lives  we  led, 

Mid  verdure  or  mid  snow, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago  ! 

But  now  our  course  of  life  is  short ; 

And  as,  from  day  to  day, 
We're  walking  on  with  halting  step, 

And  fainting  by  the  way, 
Another  land,  more  bright  than  this, 

To  our  dim  sight  appears — 
And  on  our  way  to  it  we'll  soon 

Again  be  pioneers  ! 
Yet  while  we  linger,  we  may  all 

A  backward  glance  still  throw 
To  the  days  when  we  were  pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago  ! 


GALLAGHER.  381 


THE     MOTHERS     OF     THE     WEST. 

'  I  AHE  mothers  of  our  forest-land  ! 
A       Stout-hearted  dames  were  they ; 
With  nerve  to  wield  the  battle-brand, 

And  join  the  border  fray. 
Our  rough  land  had  no  braver, 

In  its  days  of  blood  and  strife — 
Aye  ready  for  severest  toil, 

Aye  free  to  peril  life. 

The  mothers  of  our  forest-land  ! 

On  old  Kentucky's  soil 
How  shared  they,  with  each  dauntless  band, 

War's  tempest  and  life's  toil ! 
They  shrank  not  from  the  foeman — 

They  quailed  not  in  the  fight — 
But  cheered  their  husbands  through  the  day, 

And  soothed  them  through  the  night. 

The  mothers  of  our  forest-land  ! 

Their  bosoms  pillowed  men  ! 
And  proud  were  they  by  such  to  stand, 

In  hammock,  fort,  or  glen, 
To  load  the  sure  old  rifle — 

To  run  the  leaden  ball — 
To  watch  a  battling  husband's  place, 

And  fill  it,  should  he  fall ! 

The  mothers  of  our  forest-land  ! 

Such  were  their  daily  deeds : 
Their  monument ! — where  does  it  stand  ? 

Their  epitaph  ! — who  reads  ? 


382  G  OLDEN   LEAVES. 

No  braver  dames  had  Sparta, 
No  nobler  matrons  Rome — 

Yet  who  or  lauds  or  honours  them, 
E'en  in  their  own  green  home  ? 

The  mothers  of  our  forest-land  ! 

They  sleep  in  unknown  graves ; 
And  had  they  borne  and  nursed  a  band 

Of  ingrates,  or  of  slaves, 
They  had  not  been  more  neglected  ! 

But  their  graves  shall  yet  be  found, 
And  their  monuments  dot  here  and  there 

"The  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground." 


Jtlc€ldlan. 

NEW   ENGLAND'S   DEAD. 

NEW  ENGLAND'S  dead !  New  England's 
dead! 

On  every  hill  they  lie ; 
On  every  field  of  strife,  made  red 

By  bloody  victory ! 
Each  valley,  where  the  battle, poured 

Its  red  and  awful  tide, 
Beheld  the  brave  New  England  sword 

With  slaughter  deeply  dyed  ! 
Their  bones  are  on  the  Northern  hill 

And  on  the  Southern  plain, 
By  brook  and  river,  lake  and  rill, 

And  by  the  roaring  main. 


Me  CL  ELL  AN.  383 

The  land  is  holy  where  they  fought, 

And  holy  where  they  fell ; 
For  by  their  blood  that  land  was  bought — 

The  land  they  loved  so  well. 
Then  glory  to  that  valiant  band, 
The  honored  saviours  of  the  land  ! 

Oh,  few  and  weak  their  numbers  were — 

A  handful  of  brave  men; 
But  to  their  GOD  they  gave  their  prayer, 

And  rushed  to  battle  then. 
The  GOD  of  battles  heard  their  cry, 
And  sent  to  them  the  victory. 

They  left  the  ploughshare  in  the  mould, 
Their  flocks  and  herds  without  a  fold, 
The  sickle  in  the  unshorn  grain, 
The  corn,  half-garnered,  on  the  plain, 
And  mustered,  in  their  simple  dress, 
For  wrongs  to  seek  a  stern  redress — 
To  right  those  wrongs,  come  weal,  come  woe, 
To  perish,  or  o'ercome  their  foe. 

And  where  are  ye,  O  fearless  men  ? 

And  where  are  ye  to-day  ? 
I  call — the  hills  reply  again 

That  ye  have  passed  away ; 
That  on  old  Bunker's  lonely  height, 

In  Trenton,  and  in  Monmouth  ground, 
The  grass  grows  green,  the  harvest  bright, 

Above  each  soldier's  mound. 
The  bugle's  wild  and  warlike  blast 

Shall  muster  them  no  more ; 


GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

An  army  now  might  thunder  past, 

And  they  heed  not  its  roar. 
The  starry  flag  'neath  which  they  fought, 

In  many  a  bloody  day, 
From  their  old  graves  shall  rouse  them  not, 

For  they  have  passed  away. 


Sargent. 


THE     MISSING    SHIP. 

GOD  speed  the  noble  PRESIDENT  !     A  gallant  boat  is 
she, 

As  ever  entered  harbour,  or  crossed  a  stormy  sea  ; 
Like  some  majestic  castle  she  floats  upon  the  stream  ; 
The  good   ships   moored  beside  her,  like  pigmy  shallops 
seem  ! 

How  will  her  mighty  bulwarks  the  dashing  surges  brave  ! 
How  will  her  iron  sinews  make  way  'gainst  wind  and  wave  ! 
Farewell,  thou  stately  vessel  !  ye  voyagers,  farewell  ! 
Securely  on  that  deck  shall  ye  the  tempest's  shock  repel. 

The  stately  vessel  left  us  in  all  her  bold  array  ; 
A  glorious  sight,  O  landsmen  !  as  she  glided  down  our  bay  ; 
Her  flags  were  waving  joyously,  and,  from  her  ribs  of  oak. 
"Farewell"  to  all  the  city,  her  guns  in  thunder  spoke. 

Flee,  on  thy  vapoury  pinions  !  back,  back  to  England  flee  ! 
Where  patient  watchers  by  the  strand  have  waited  long  for 
thee  ; 


SARGENT.  3&5 

Where  kindred  hearts  are  beating  to  welcome  home  thy 

crew, 
And  tearful  eyes  gaze  constantly  across  the  waters  blue ! 

Alas,  ye  watchers  by  the  strand  !  weeks,  months  have  rolled 

away, 

But  where — where  is  the  President  ?  and  why  is  this  delay  ? 
Return,  pale  mourners,  to  your  homes  !  ye  gaze,  and  gaze 

in  vain : 
Oh,  never  shall  that  pennoned  mast  salute  your  eyes  again  ! 

And  now  our  hopes,  like  morning  stars,  have,  one  by  one, 

gone  out ; 

And  mute  despair  subdues,  at  length,  the  agony  of  doubt ; 
But  still  Affection  lifts  the  torch  by  night  along  the  shore, 
And  lingers  by  the  surf-beat  rocks,  to  marvel,  to  deplore ! 

In  dreams  I  see  the  fated  ship  torn  by  the  northern  blast ; 
About  her  tempest-riven  track  the  white  fog  gathers  fast ; 
When  lo  !  above  the  swathing  mist  their  heads  the  icebergs 

lift, 
In  lucent  grandeur,  to  the  clouds — vast  continents  adrift ! 

One  mingled  shriek  of  awe  goes  up  at  that  stupendous 
sight ; 

Now,  helmsman,  for  a  hundred  lives,  oh  guide  the  helm 
aright ! 

Vain  prayer  ! — she  strikes  !  and,  thundering  down,  the  ava- 
lanches fall ; 

Crushed,  whelmed,  the  stately  vessel  sinks — the  cold  sea 
covers  all ! 

Anon,  unresting  Fancy  holds  a  direr  scene  to  view : 

The  burning  ship,  the  fragile  raft,  the  pale  and  dying  crew  ! 


386  G  OLDEN  'LEAVES.. 

Ah  me  !  was  such  their  maddening  fate  upon  the  billowy 

brine  ? 
Give  up,  remorseless  Ocean  !  a  relic  and  a  sign  ! 

No  answer  cometh  from  the  deep  to  tell  the  tale  we  dread : 
No  messenger  of  weal  or  woe  returneth  from  the  dead : 
But  Hope,  through  tears,  looks  up  and  sees,  from  earthly- 
haven  driven, 

The  lost  ones  meet  in  fairer  realms,  where  storms  reach 
not— in  heaven ! 


ilip  Jhnbleton  €ooke. 

LIFE     IN     THE     AUTUMN     WOODS. 

CUMMER  has  gone, 

^  And  fruitful  Autumn  has  advanced  so  far 
That  there  is  warmth,  not  heat,  in  the  broad  sun, 
And  you  may  look,  with  naked  eye,  upon 

The  ardours  of  his  car ; 
The  stealthy  frosts,  whom  his  spent  looks  embolden, 

Are  making  the  green  leaves  golden. 

What  a  brave  splendour 
Is  in  the  October  air !  how  rich,  and  clear, 
And  bracing,  and  all-joyous !      We  must  render 
Love  to  the  Spring-time,  with  its  sproutings  tender, 

As  to  a  child  quite  dear; 
But  Autumn  is  a  thing  of  perfect  glory, 

A  manhood  not  yet  hoary. 


C  0  OKE.  387 

I  love  the  woods, 

In  this  good  season  of  the  liberal  year ; 
I  love  to  seek  their  leafy  solitudes, 
And  give  myself  to  melancholy  moods, 

With  no  intruder  near, 
And  find  strange  lessons,  as  I  sit  and  ponder, 

In  every  natural  wonder. 

But  not  alone, 

As  SHAKSPEARE'S  melancholy  courtier  loved  Ardennes, 
Love  I  the  browning  forest ;  and  I  own 
I  would  not  oft  have  mused,  as  he,  but  flown 

To  hunt  with  AMIENS — 
And  little  thought,  as  up  the  bold  deer  bounded, 

Of  the  sad  creature  wounded. 

A  brave  and  good, 

But  world-worn  knight — soul-wearied  with  his  part 
In  this  vexed  life — gave  man  for  solitude, 
And  built  a  lodge,  and  lived  in  Wantley  wood, 

To  hear  the  belling  Hart. 
It  was  a  gentle  taste,  but  its  sweet  sadness 

Yields  to  the  Hunter's  madness. 

What  passionate 

And  keen  delight  is  in  the  proud  swift  chase ! 
Go  out  what  time  the  lark  at  heaven's  red  gate 
Soars  joyously  singing — quite  infuriate 

With  the  high  pride  of  his  place ; 
What  time  the  unrisen  sun  arrays  the  morning 

In  its  first  bright  adorning. 

Hark  !  the  quick  horn — 
As  sweet  to  hear  as  any  clarion — 


388  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Piercing  with  silver  call  the  ear  of  morn ; 

And  mark  the  steeds,  stout  Curtal  and  Topthorne, 

And  Greysteil  and  the  Don — 
Each  one  of  them  his  fiery  mood  displaying 

With  pawing  and  with  neighing. 

Urge  your  swift  horse, 
After  the  crying  hounds  in  this  fresh  hour, 
Vanquish  high  hills — stem  perilous  streams  perforce, 
On  the  free  plain  give  free  wings  to  your  course, 

And  you  will  know  the  power 
Of  the  brave  chase — and  how  of  griefs  the  sorest 

A  cure  is  in  the  forest. 

Or  stalk  the  deer ; 

The  same  red  lip  of  dawn  has  kissed  the  hills, 
The  gladdest  sounds  are  crowding  on  your  ear, 
There  is  a  life  in  all  the  atmosphere  : — 

Your  very  nature  fills 
With  the  fresh  hour,  as  up  the  hills  aspiring 

You  climb  with  limbs  untiring. 

It  is  a  fair 

And  goodly  sight  to  see  the  antlered  stag, 
With  the  long  sweep  of  his  swift  walk  repair 
To  join  his  brothers ;  or  the  plethoric  bear 

Lying  on  some  high  crag, 
With  pinky  eyes  half  closed,  but  broad  head  shaking, 

As  gad-flies  keep  him  waking. 

And  these  you  see, 

And  seeing  them,  you  travel  to  their  death 
With  a  slow,  stealthy  step,  from  tree  to  tree, 
Noting  the  wind,  however  faint  it  be. 


SAXE.  389 

The  hunter  draws  a  breath 

In  times  like  these,  which,  he  will  say,  repays  him 
For  all  care  that  waylays  him. 

A  strong  joy  fills 

(A  joy  beyond  the  tongue's  expressive  power) 
My  heart  in  Autumn  weather — fills  and  thrills ! 
And  I  would  rather  stalk  the  breezy  hills, 

Descending  to  my  bower 
Nightly,  by  the  sweet  spirit  of  Peace  attended, 

Than  pine  where  life  is  splendid. 


3ol)n  ® 

THE     PROUD     MISS     MACBRIDE. 
A    LEGEND    OF    GOTHAM. 

,  terribly  proud  was  Miss  MACBRIDE, 
The  very  personification  of  pride, 
As  she  minced  along  in  Fashion's  tide, 
Adown  Broadway — on  the  proper  side — 

When  the  golden  sun  was  setting ; 
There  was  pride  in  the  head  she  carried  so  high, 
Pride  in  her  lip,  and  pride  in  her  eye, 
And  a  world  of  pride  in  the  very  sigh 
That  her  stately  bosom  was  fretting : 

A  sigh  that  a  pair  of  elegant  feet, 
Sandalled  in  satin,  should  kiss  the  street — 

The  very  same  that  the  vulgar  greet 
18 


39°  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

In  common  leather  not  over  "neat"  — 
For  such  is  the  common  booting  ; 
(And  Christian  tears  may  well  be  shed, 
That  even  among  our  gentlemen-bred 
The  glorious  Day  of  Morocco  is  dead, 
And  Day  and  Martin  are  reigning  instead, 
On  a  much  inferior  footing  !) 


Oh,  terribly  proud  was  Miss 

Proud  of  her  beauty,  and  proud  of  her  pride, 

And  proud  of  fifty  matters  beside  — 

That  wouldn't  have  borne  dissection  ; 
Proud  of  her  wit,  and  proud  of  her  walk, 
Proud  of  her  teeth,  and  proud  of  her  talk, 
Proud  of  "  knowing  cheese  from  chalk," 

On  a  very  slight  inspection  !  — 

Proud  abroad,  and  proud  at  home, 
Proud  wherever  she  chanced  to  come  — 
When  she  was  glad,  and  when  she  was  glum, 

Proud  as  the  head  of  a  Saracen 
Over  the  door  of  a  tippling-shop  !  — 
Proud  as  a  duchess,  proud  as  a  fop, 
"  Proud  as  a  boy  with  a  bran-new  top," 

Proud  beyond  comparison  ! 

It  .seems  a  singular  thing  to  say, 
But  her  very  senses  led  her  astray 

Respecting  all  humility  ; 
In  sooth,  her  dull  auricular  drum 
Could  find  in  humble  only  a  "  hum," 
And  heard  no  sound  of  "  gentle"  come, 

In  talking  about  gentility. 


SAXE.  391 

What  lowly  meant  she  didn't  know, 

For  she  always  avoided  "  every  thing  low," 

With  care  the  most  punctilious ; 
And,  queerer  still,  the  audible  sound 
Of  "  super-silly"  she  never  had  found 

In  the  adjective  supercilious  ! 

The  meaning  of  meek  she  never  knew, 
But  imagined  the  phrase  had  something  to  do 
With  "  Moses,"  a  peddling  German  Jew, 
Who,  like  all  hawkers,  the  country  through, 

Was  "  a  person  of  no  position ;" 
And  it  seemed  to  her  exceedingly  plain, 
If  the  word  was  really  known  to  pertain 
To  a  vulgar  German,  it  wasn't  germane 

To  a  lady  of  high  condition  ! 

Even  her  graces — not  her  grace, 

For  that  was  in  the  "  vocative  case" — 

Chilled  with  the  touch  of  her  icy  face, 

Sat  very  stiffly  upon  her ; 
She  never  confessed  a  favour  aloud, 
Like  one  of  the  simple,  common  crowd — 
But  coldly  smiled,  and  faintly  bowed, 
As  who  should  say,  "  You  do  me  proud, 

And  do  yourself  an  honour  !" 

And  yet  the  pride  of  Miss  MACBRIDE, 
Although  it  had  fifty  hobbies  to  ride, 

Had  really  no  foundation ; 
But  like  the  fabrics  that  gossips  devise — 
Those  single  stories  that  often  arise 


392  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

And  grow  till  they  reach  a  four-story  size — 
Was  merely  a  fancy  creation  ! 

'Tis  a  curious  fact  as  ever  was  known 
In  human  nature,  but  often  shown 

Alike  in  castle  and  cottage, 
That  pride,  like  pigs  of  a  certain  breed, 
Will  manage  to  live  and  thrive  on  "  feed" 

As  poor  as  a  pauper's  pottage. 

That  her  wit  should  never  have  made  her  vain, 
Was — like  her  face — sufficiently  plain ; 

And  as  to  her  musical  powers, 
Although  she  sang  until  she  was  hoarse, 
And  issued  notes  with  a  banker's  force, 
They  were  just  such  notes  as  we  never  indorse 

For  any  acquaintance  of  ours  ! 

Her  birth,  indeed,  was  uncommonly  high — 
For  Miss  MACBRIDE  first  opened  her  eye 
Through  a  skylight  dim,  on  the  light  of  the  sky ; 

But  pride  is  a  curious  passion — 
And  in  talking  about  her  wealth  and  worth, 
She  always  forgot  to  mention  her  birth 

To  people  of  rank  and  fashion. 

Of  all  the  notable  things  on  earth, 
The  queerest  one  is  pride  of  birth, 

Among  our  "  fierce  democracie  !" 
A  bridge  across  a  hundred  years, 
Without  a  prop  to  save  it  from  sneers — 
Not  even  a  couple  of  rotten  peers — 
A  thing  for  laughter,  fleers,  and  jeers, 

Is  American  aristocracy  ! 


SAXE.  393 

English  and  Irish,  French  and  Spanish, 
German,  Italian,  Dutch,  and  Danish, 
Crossing  their  veins  until  they  vanish 

In  one  conglomeration ; 
So  subtle  a  tangle  of  blood,  indeed, 
No  heraldry-HARVEY  will  ever  succeed 

In  finding  the  circulation  ! 

Depend  upon  it,  my  snobbish  friend, 
Your  family  thread  you  can't  ascend, 
Without  good  reason  to  apprehend 
You  may  find  it  waxed  at  the  farther  end 

By  some  plebeian  vocation ; 
Or,  worse  than  that,  your  boasted  line 
May  end  in  a  loop  of  stronger  twine, 

That  plagued  some  worthy  relation  ! 

But  Miss  MACBRIDE  had  something  beside 
Her  lofty  birth  to  nourish  her  pride — 
For  rich  was  the  old  paternal  MACBRIDE, 

According  to  public  rumour; 
And  he  lived  "  up  town,"  in  a  splendid  square, 
And  kept  his  daughter  on  dainty  fare, 
And  gave  her  gems  that  were  rich  and  rare, 
And  the  finest  rings  and  things  to  wear, 

And  feathers  enough  to  plume  her. 

An  honest  mechanic  was  JOHN  MACBRIDE, 
As  ever  an  honest  calling  plied 

Or  graced  an  honest  ditty , 
For  JOHN  had  worked,  in  his  early  day, 
In  "  pots  and  pearls,"  the  legends  say — 
And  kept  a  shop  with  a  rich  array 


394  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Of  things  in  the  soap  and  candle  way, 
In  the  lower  part  of  the  city. 

No  "  rara  avis"  was  honest  JOHN 
(That's  the  Latin  for  "  sable  swan") — 

Though,  in  one  of  his  fancy  flashes, 
A  wicked  wag,  who  meant  to  deride, 
Called  honest  JOHN  "  Old  Phoenix  MACBRIDE," 

"  Because  he  rose  from  his  ashes !" 

Little  by  little  he  grew  to  be  rich, 
By  saving  of  candle-ends  and  "  sich," 
Till  he  reached  at  last  an  opulent  niche — 

,     No  very  uncommon  affair ; 
For  history  quite  confirms  the  law 
Expressed  in  the  ancient  Scottish  saw — 
A  MICKLE  may  come  to  be  may'r  !* 

Alack  for  many  ambitious  beaux  ! 
She  hung  their  hopes  upon  her  nose 

(The  figure  is  quite  Horatian  !) — 
Until,  from  habit,  the  member  grew 
As  very  a  hook  as  ever  eye  knew, 

To  the  commonest  observation. 

A  thriving  tailor  begged  her  hand, 

But  she  gave  "  the  fellow"  to  understand 

By  a  violent  manual  action, 
She  perfectly  scorned  the  best  of  his  clan, 
And  reckoned  the  ninth  of  any  man 

An  exceedingly  vulgar  fraction  ! 

*  "  Mickle,  wi'  thrift,  may  chance  to  be  mair." — Scotch  Proverb. 


SAXE.  395 

Another,  whose  sign  was  a  golden  boot, 
Was  mortified  with  a  bootless  suit, 

In  a  way  that  was  quite  appalling ; 
For,  though  a  regular  sutor  by  trade, 
He  wasn't  a  suitor  to  suit  the  maid, 
Who  cut  him  off  with  a  saw — and  bade 

"The  cobbler  keep  to  his  calling." 

(The  muse  must  let  a  secret  out : 
There  isn't  the  faintest  shadow  of  doubt 
That  folks  who  oftenest  sneer  and  flout 

At  "  the  dirty,  low  mechanicals," 
Are  they  whose  sires,  by  pounding  their  knees, 
Or  coiling  their  legs,  or  trades  like  these, 
Contrived  to  win  their  children  ease 

From  Poverty's  galling  manacles.) 

A  rich  tobacconist  comes  and  sues, 
And,  thinking  the  lady  would  scarce  refuse 
A  man  of  his  wealth  and  liberal  views, 
Began,  at  once,  with  "  If  you  choose — 

And  could  you  really  love  him — " 
But  the  lady  spoiled  his  speech  in  a  huff, 
With  an  answer  rough  and  ready  enough, 
To  let  him  know  she  was  up  to  snuff, 

And  altogether  above  him  ! 

A  young  attorney,  of  winning  grace, 
Was  scarce  allowed  to  "  open  his  face," 
Ere  Miss  MACBRIDE  had  closed  his  case 

With  true  judicial  celerity; 
For  the  lawyer  was  poor,  and  "  seedy"  to  boot, 
And  to  say  the  lady  discarded  his  suit, 

Is  merely  a  double  verity. 


396  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

The  last  of  those  who  came  to  court 

Was  a  lively  beau  of  the  dapper  sort, 

"  Without  any  visible  means  of  support"  — 

A  crime  by  no  means  flagrant 
In  one  who  wears  an  elegant  coat, 
But  the  very  point  on  which  they  vote 

A  ragged  fellow  "  a  vagrant." 

A  courtly  fellow  was  dapper  JIM, 
Sleek  and  supple,  and  tall  and  trim, 
And  smooth  of  tongue  as  neat  of  limb  ; 

And,  maugre  his  meagre  pocket, 
You'd  say,  from  the  glittering  tales  he  told, 
That  JIM  had  slept  in  a  cradle  of  gold, 

With  FORTUNATUS  to  rock  it. 

Now  dapper  JIM  his  courtship  plied 
(I  wish  the  fact  could  be  denied) 
With  an  eye  to  the  purse  of  the  old 

And  really  "  nothing  shorter  !" 
For  he  said  to  himself,  in  his  greedy  lust, 
"  Whenever  he  dies  —  as  die  he  must  — 
And  yields  to  Heaven  his  vital  trust, 
He's  very  sure  to  '  come  down  with  his  dust,' 

In  behalf  of  his  only  daughter." 


And  the  very  magnificent  Miss 
Half  in  love,  and  half  in  pride, 

Quite  graciously  relented  ; 
And,  tossing  her  head,  and  turning  her  back, 
No  token  of  proper  pride  to  lack  — 
To  be  a  Bride,  without  the  "  Mac," 

With  much  disdain,  consented. 


SAXE.  397 

Alas !  that  people  who've  got  their  box 
Of  cash  beneath  the  best  of  locks, 
Secure  from  all  financial  shocks, 
Should  stock  their  fancy  with  fancy  stocks, 
And  madly  rush  upon  Wall-street  rocks, 

Without  the  least  apology  ! 
Alas !  that  people  whose  money-affairs 
Are  sound,  beyond  all  need  of  repairs, 
Should  ever  tempt  the  bulls  and  bears 

Of  Mammon's  fierce  zoology  ! 

Old  JOHN  MACBRIDE,  one  fatal  day, 
Became  the  unresisting  prey 

Of  Fortune's  undertakers ; 
And,  staking  all  on  a  single  die, 
His  foundered  bark  went  high  and  dry 

Among  the  brokers  and  breakers  ! 

At  his  trade  again,  in  the  very  shop 
Where,  years  before,  he  let  it  drop, 

He  follows  his  ancient  calling — 
Cheerily,  too,  in  Poverty's  spite, 
And  sleeping  quite  as  sound  at  night 
As  when,  at  Fortune's  giddy  height, 
He  used  to  wake  with  a  dizzy  fright 

From  a  dismal  dream  of  falling. 

But  alas  for  the  haughty  Miss  MACBRIDE, 
'Twas  such  a  shock  to  her  precious  pride  ! 
She  couldn't  recover,  although  she  tried 

Her  jaded  spirits  to  rally; 
'Twas  a  dreadful  change  in  human  affairs, 
From  a  Place  "  up  town"  to  a  nook  "  up  stairs," 

From  an  avenue  down  to  an  alley.! 
18* 


398  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

'Twas  little  condolence  she  had,  GOD  wot, 
From  her  "  troops  of  friends,"  who  hadn't  forgot 

The  airs  she  used  to  borrow ; 
They  had  civil  phrases  enough,  but  yet 
'Twas  plain  to  see  that  their  "  deepest  regret" 

Was  a  different  thing  from  sorrow  ! 

They  owned  it  couldn't  have  well  been  worse 

To  go  from  a  full  to  an  empty  purse : 

To  expect  a  "reversion,"  and  get  a  reverse, 

Was  truly  a  dismal  feature ; 
But  it  wasn't  strange — they  whispered — at  all : 
That  the  summer  of  pride  should  have  its  fall 

Was  quite  according  to  Nature  ! 

And  one  of  those  chaps  who  make  a  pun, 
As  if  it  were  quite  legitimate  fun 
To  be  blazing  away  at  every  one 
With  a  regular  double-loaded  gun, 

Remarked  that  moral  transgression 
Always  brings  retributive  stings 
To  candle-makers  as  well  as  kings : 
For  "  making  light  of  cereous  things" 

Was  a  very  wick-ed  profession  ! 

And  vulgar  people — the  saucy  churls ! — 
Inquired  about  "  the  price  of  pearls," 

And  mocked  at  her  situation  : 
"  She  wasn't  ruined,  they  ventured  to  hope — 
Because  she  was  poor,  she  needn't  mope ; 
Few  people  were  better  off  for  soap, 

And  that  was  a  consolation  !" 


SAXE.  399 

And,  to  make  her  cup  of  woe  run  over, 
Her  elegant,  ardent,  plighted  lover 

Was  the  very  first  to  forsake  her ; 
"  He  quite  regretted  the  step,  'twas  true — 
The  lady  had  pride  enough  '  for  two/ 
But  that  alone  would  never  do 

To  quiet  the  butcher  and  baker." 

And  now  the  unhappy  Miss  MACBRIDE — 
The  merest  ghost  of  her  early  pride — 

Bewails  her  lonely  position ; 
Cramped  in  the  very  narrowest  niche, 
Above  the  poor,  and  below  the  rich, 

Was  ever  a  worse  condition  ? 

MORAL. 

Because  you  flourish  in  worldly  affairs, 
Don't  be  haughty,  and  put  on  airs, 

With  insolent  pride  of  station ; 
Don't  be  proud,  and  turn  up  your  nose 
At  poorer  people  in  plainer  clo'es, 
But  learn,  for  the  sake  of  your  mind's  repose, 
That  wealth's  a  bubble  that  comes — and  goes ! 
And  that  all  proud  flesh,  wherever  it  grows, 

Is  subject  to  irritation  ! 


PHAETHON,    OR    THE    AMATEUR    COACHMAN. 

T"\AN  PHAETHON— so  the  histories  run— 
"^^^    Was  a  jolly  young  chap,  and  a  son  of  the  Sun  ; 
Or  rather  of  PHOZBUS — but  as  to  his  mother, 
Genealogists  make  a  deuce  of  a  pother, 


400  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Some  going  for  one,  and  some  for  another; 
For  myself,  I  must  say,  as  a  careful  explorer, 
This  roaring  young  blade  was  the  son  of  AURORA  ! 
Now  old  Father  PHOEBUS,  ere  railways  begun 
To  elevate  funds  and  depreciate  fun, 
Drove  a  very  fast  coach  by  the  name  of  "  The  Sun," 
'    Running,  they  say, 

Trips  every  day 

(On  Sundays  and  all,  in  a  heathenish  way), 
All  lighted  up  with  a  famous  array 
Of  lanterns  that  shone  with  a  brilliant  display, 
And  dashing  along  like  a  gentleman's  "  shay," 
With  never  a  fare,  and  nothing  to  pay  ! 

Now  PHAETHON  begged  of  his  doting  old  father 

To  grant  him  a  favour,  and  this  the  rather, 

Since  some  one  had  hinted,  the  youth  to  annoy, 

That  he  wasn't  by  any  means  PHOEBUS'S  boy  ! 

Intending,  the  rascally  son  of  a  gun, 

To  darken  the  brow  of  the  son  of  the  Sun  ! 

"  By  the  terrible  Styx,"  said  the  angry  sire, 

While  his  eyes  flashed  volumes  of  fury  and  fire, 

"  To  prove  your  reviler  an  infamous  liar, 

I  swear  I  will  grant  you  whate'er  you  desire  !" 

"Then  by  my  head," 

The  youngster  said, 

"  I'll  mount  the  coach  when  the  horses  are  fed — 
For  there's  nothing  I'd  choose,  as  I'm  alive, 
Like  a  seat  on  the  box,  and  a  dashing  drive  !" 

"Nay,  PHAETHON,  don't — 

I  beg  you  won't — 
Just  stop  a  moment,  and  think  upon't ! 


SAXE.  401 

You're  quite  too  young,"  continued  the  sage, 
"  To  tend  a  coach  at  your  early  age ; 

Besides,  you  see, 

'Twill  really  be 
Your  first  appearance  on  any  stage  ! 

Desist,  my  child — 

The  cattle  are  wild, 

And  when  their  mettle  is  thoroughly  '  riled/ 
Depend  upon't,  the  coach  will  be  *  spiled'— 
They're  not  the  fellows  to  draw  it  mild ! 

Desist,  I  say, 

You'll  rue  the  day — 
So  mind,  and  don't  be  foolish,  PHA  !"     t 

But  the  youth  was  proud, 

And  swore  aloud, 

'Twas  just  the  thing  to  astonish  the  crowd — 
He'd  have  the  horses,  and  wouldn't  be  cowed  ! 
In  vain  the  boy  was  cautioned  at  large, 
He  called  for  the  chargers,  unheeding  the  charge, 
And  vowed  that  any  young  fellow  of  force 
Could  manage  a  dozen  coursers,  of  course  ! 

Now  PHOZBUS  felt  exceedingly  sorry 
He  had  given  his  word  in  such  a  hurry ; 
But,  having  sworn  by  the  Styx,  no  doubt 
He  was  in  for  it  now,  and  couldn't  back  out. 
So  calling  PHAETHON  up  in  a  trice, 
He  gave  the  youth  a  bit  of  advice : 

"  '  Farce  stimulis,  utere  loris  /' 
(A  '  stage  direction,'  of  which  the  core  is, 
Don't  use  the  whip — they're  ticklish  things — 
But,  whatever  you  do,  hold  on  to  the  strings  !) 


402  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Remember  the  rule  of  the  jEHu-tribe  is, 

'  Media  tutissimus  ibis,' 

As  the  judge  remarked  to  a  rowdy  Scotchman 
(Who  was  going  to  quod  between  two  watchmen) ; 
So  mind  your  eye  and  spare  your  goad — 
Be  shy  of  the  stones  and  keep  in  the  road !" 

Now  PHAETHON,  perched  in  the  coachman's  place, 

Drove  off  the  steeds  at  a  furious  pace, 

Fast  as  coursers  running  a  race, 

Or  bounding  along  in  a  steeple-chase  ! 

Of  whip  and  shout  there  was  no  lack — 

"  Crack — whack — 

Whack— crack"— 
Resounding  along  the  horses'  back  ! 
Frightened  beneath  the  stinging  lash, 
Cutting  their  flanks  in  many  a  gash, 
On — on  they  speed  as  swift  as  a  flash, 
Through  thick  and  thin  away  they  dash 
(Such  rapid  driving  is  always  rash)  ! 
When,  all  at  once,  with  a  dreadful  crash, 
The  whole  establishment  went  to  smash  ! 

And  PHAETHON,  he, 

As  all  agree, 

Off  the  coach  was  suddenly  hurled, 
Into  a  puddle,  and  out  of  the  world ! 

MORAL. 

Don't  rashly  take  to  dangerous  courses, 
Nor  set  it  down  in  your  table  of  forces 
That  any  one  man  equals  any  four  horses  ! 


EMERSON.  403 

Don't  swear  by  the  Styx  ! — 

It's  one  of  Old  NICK'S 

Diabolical  tricks 

To  get  people  into  a  regular  "  fix," 
And  hold  'em  there  as  fast  as  bricks  ! 


€mer0on. 


THE     POET. 

R  this  present,  hard 
Is  the  fortune  of  the  bard 

Born  out  of  time  ; 
All  his  accomplishment 
From  Nature's  utmost  treasure  spent 

Booteth  not  him. 
When  the  pine  tosses  its  cones 
To  the  song  of  its  waterfall  tones, 
He  speeds  to  the  woodland  walks, 
To  birds  and  trees  he  talks  : 
CJESAR  of  his  leafy  Rome, 
There  the  poet  is  at  home. 
He  goes  to  the  river-  side,  — 

Not  hook  nor  line  hath  he  : 
He  stands  in  the  meadows  wide,  — 

Nor  gun  nor  scythe  to  see  ; 
With  none  has  he  to  do, 

And  none  to  seek  him, 
Nor  men  below, 

Nor  spirits  dim. 


404  GOLDEN  LEAVE S. 

What  he  knows  nobody  wants ; 
What  he  knows  he  hides,  not  vaunts. 
Knowledge  this  man  prizes  best 
Seems  fantastic  to  the  rest; 
Pondering  shadows,  colours,  clouds, 
Grass-buds,  and  caterpillars'  shrouds, 
Boughs  on  which  the  wild  bees  settle, 
Tints  that  spot  the  violets'  petal, 
Why  Nature  loves  the  number  five, 

And  why  the  star-form  she  repeats  ;- 
Lover  of  all  things  alive, 

Wonderer  at  all  he  meets, 
Wonderer  chiefly  at  himself^ — 

Who  can  tell  him  what  he  is, 
Or  how  meet  in  human  elf 

Coming  and  past  eternities  ? 


And  such  I  knew,  a  forest  seer, 
A  minstrel  of  the  natural  year, 
Foreteller  of  the  vernal  ides, 
Wise  harbinger  of  spheres  and  tides, 
A  lover  true,  who  knew  by  heart 
Each  joy  the  mountain-dales  impart ; 
It  seemed  that  Nature  could  not  raise 
A  plant  in  any  secret  place, 
In  quaking  bog,  on  snowy  hill, 
Beneath  the  grass  that  shades  the  rill, 
Under  the  snow,  beneath  the  rocks, 
In  damp  fields  known  to  bird  and  fox, 
But  he  would  come  in  the  very  hour 
It  opened  in  its  virgin  bower, 


EMERSON.  405 

As  if  a  sunbeam  showed  the  place, 

And  tell  its  long-descended  race. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  bree/es  brought  him, 

It  seemed  as  if  the  sparrows  taught  him, 

As  if  by  secret  sight  he  knew 

Where  in  far  fields  the  orchis  grew. 

There  are  many  events  in  the  field, 

Which  are  not  shown  to  common  eyes, 
But  all  her  shows  did  Nature  yield 

To  please  and  win  this  pilgrim  wise. 
He  saw  the  partridge  drum  in  the  woods, 

He  heard  the  woodcock's  evening  hymn, 
He  found  the  tawny  thrush's  broods, 

And  the  shy  hawk  did  wait  for  him. 
What  others  did  at  distance  hear, 

And  guessed  within  the  thicket's  gloom, 
Was  showed  to  this  philosopher, 

And  at  his  bidding  seemed  to  come. 


EACH     AND     ALL. 

ITTLE  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clov/n 
"*-'  Of  thee  from  the  hill-top  looking  down ; 
The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 
Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm ; 
The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noon, 
Deems  not  that  great  NAPOLEON 
Stops  his  horse,  and  lists  with  delight, 
Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  yon  Alpine  height ; 
Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 
Thy  life  to  thy  neighbour's  creed  has  lent. 


406  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

All  are  needed  by  each  one — 

Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 

I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 

Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder-bough ; 

I  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even. 

He  sings  the  song,  but  it  pleases  not  now ; 

For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky : 

He  sang  to  my  ear — they  sang  to  my  eye. 

The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore ; 

The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 

Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave, 

And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 

Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 

I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam — 

I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home ; 

But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 

Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore, 

With  the  sun,  and  the  sand,  and  the  wild  uproar. 

The  lover  watched  his  graceful  maid, 

As  mid  the  virgin  train  she  strayed  ; 

Nor  knew  her  beauty's  best  attire 

Was  woven  still  by  the  snow  white  choir. 

At  last  she  came  to  his  hermitage, 

Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the  cage ; 

The  gay  enchantment  was  undone — 

A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 

"  Then  I  said,  "  I  covet  truth  ; 

Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat — 

I  leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of  youth." 

As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 


EMERSON.  407 

The  ground-pine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 

Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs ; 

I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath  ; 

Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs ; 

Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground ; 

Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 

Full  of  light  and  of  deity ; 

Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard, 

The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird ; 

Beauty  through  my  senses  stole — 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 


TO     THE      HUMBLE-BEE. 

"CMNE  humble-bee  !  fine  humble-bee  ! 
•*•      Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me ; 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek, — 
I  will  follow  thee  alone, 
Thou  animated  torrid  zone  ! 
Zig-zag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 

Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines ; 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Flower-bells, 

Honeyed  cells, — 

These  the  tents 

Which  he  frequents. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 
Joy  of  thy  dominion  ! 


408  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Sailor  of  the  atmosphere, 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air, 
Voyager  of  light  and  noon, 
Epicurean  of  June  ! 
Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  earshot  of  thy  hum, — 
All  without  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south  wind,  in  May  days, 
With  a  net  of  shining  haze 
Silvers  the  horizon  wall ; 
And,  with  softness  touching  all, 
Tints  the  human  countenance 
With  a  colour  of  romance ; 
And,  infusing  subtle  heats, 
Turns  the  sod  to  violets, — 
Thou  in  sunny  solitudes, 
Rover  of  the  underwoods, 
The  green(  silence  dost  displace 
With  thy  mellow  breezy  bass. 

Hot  Midsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tune, 
Telling  of  countless  sunny  hours, 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound, 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found ; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean 
Hath  my  insect  never  seen ; 


EMERSON.  409 

But  violets,  and  bilberry-bells, 
Maple-sap,  and  daffbdels, 
Clover,  catchfly,  adder's-tongue, 
And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among : 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 
All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher, 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 

Sipping  only  what  is  sweet, 
Thou  dost  mock  at  Fate  and  Care, 

Leave  the  chaff  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep ; 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep ; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 


GOOD-BY,     PROUD     WORLD? 

OOD-BY,  proud  world  !  I'm  going  home  : 
Thou'rt  not  my  friend,  and  I'm  not  thine. 
Long  through  thy  weary  crowds  I  roam, 

A  river-ark  on  the  ocean's  brine ; 
Long  I've  been  tossed  like  the  driven  foam ; 
But  now,  proud  world  !  I'm  going  home. 

Good-by  to  Flattery's  fawning  face ; 
To  Grandeur,  with  his  wise  grimace ; 


410  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

To  upstart  Wealth's  averted  eye ; 

To  supple  Office,  low  and  high ; 

To  crowded  halls,  to  court  and  street ; 

To  frozen  hearts  and  hasting  feet ; 

To  those  who  go,  and  those  who  come ; 

Good-by,  proud  world  !  I'm  going  home. 

I  am  going  to  my  own  hearth-stone, 
Bosomed  in  yon  green  hills  alone — 
A  secret  nook  in  a  pleasant  land, 
Whose  groves  the  frolic  fairies  planned ; 
Where  arches  green,  the  livelong  day, 
Echo  the  blackbird's  roundelay, 
And  vulgar  feet  have  never  trod 
A  spot  that  is  sacred  to  thought  and  GOD. 

Oh,  when  I  am  safe  in  my  sylvan  home, 
I  tread  on  the  pride  of  Greece  and  Rome ; 
And  when  I  am  stretched  beneath  the  pines, 
Where  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 
I  laugh  at  the  lore  and  the  pride  of  man ; 
At  the  sophist  schools,  and  the  learned  clan ; 
For  what  are  they  all  in  their  high  conceit, 
When  man  in  the  bush  with  GOD  may  meet ! 


THE     WORLD     FOR     SALE. 

>TpHE  WORLD  FOR  SALE  !      Hang  out  the  sign ; 
•**       Call  every  traveller  here  to  me ; 
Who'll  buy  this  brave  estate  of  mine, 
And  set  me  from  earth's  bondage  free  ? 


HOYT.  411 

'Tis  going ! — Yes,  I  mean  to  fling 

The  bawble  from  my  soul  away ; 
I'll  sell  it,  whatsoe'er  it  bring, — 

The  World  at  Auction  here  to-day  ! 

It  is  a  glorious  thing  to  see — 

Ah,  it  has  cheated  me  so  sore ! 
It  is  not  what  it  seems  to  be  : 

For  sale  !  it  shall  be  mine  no  more. 
Come,  turn  it  o'er,  and  view  it  well ; 

I  would  not  have  you  purchase  dear ; 
'Tis  going — going  ! — I  must  sell ! 

Who  bids  ?— Who'll  buy  the  Splendid  Tear  ? 

Here's  WEALTH  in  glittering  heaps  of  gold — 

Who  bids  ? — But  let  me  tell  you  fair, 
A  baser  lot  was  never  sold ; — 

Who'll  buy  the  heavy  heaps  of  care  ? 
And  here,  spread  out  in  broad  domain, 

A  goodly  landscape  all  may  trace ; 
Hall,  cottage,  tree,  field,  hill,  and  plain : 

Who'll  buy  himself  a  burial-place  ? 

Here's  LOVE,  the  dreamy,  potent  spell 

That  Beauty  flings  around  the  heart ; 
I  know  its  power,  alas  !   too  well ; — 

'Tis  going — Love  and  I  must  part ! 
Must  part ! — What  can  I  more  with  Love  ? 

All  over  the  enchanter's  reign ; 
Who'll  buy  the  plumeless,  dying  dove  ? — 

An  hour  of  bliss,  an  age  of  pain  ! 

And  FRIENDSHIP — rarest  gem  of  earth — 
(Who  e'er  hath  found  the  jewel  his  ?) 


412  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Frail,  fickle,  false,  and  little  worth, 
Who  bids  for  Friendship — as  it  is  ? 

'Tis  going — going  ! — Hear  the  call : 

Once,  twice,  and  thrice  ! — 'Tis  very  low  ! 

'Twas  once  my  hope,  my  stay,  my  all — 
But  now  the  broken  staff  must  go  ! 

FAME  !  hold  the  brilliant  meteor  high ; 

How  dazzling  every  gilded  name  ! 
Ye  millions,  now's  the  time  to  buy  ! — 

How  much  for  Fame  ?  how  much  for  Fame  ? 
Hear  how  it  thunders ! — Would  you  stand 

On  high  Olympus,  far  renowned  ? 
Now  purchase,  and  a  world  command, 

And  be  with  a  world's  curses  crowned ! 

Sweet  star  of  HOPE  !  with  ray  to  shine 

In  every  sad,  foreboding  breast, 
Save  this  desponding  one  of  mine, — 

Who  bids  for  man's  last  friend  and  best  ? 
Ah  !  were  not  mine  a  bankrupt  life, 

This  treasure  should  my  soul  sustain ; 
But  Hope  and  I  are  now  at  strife, 

Nor  ever  may  unite  again. 

And  SONG  ! — For  sale  my  tuneless  lute ; 

Sweet  solace,  mine  no  more  to  hold ; 
The  chords  that  charmed  my  soul  are  mute ; 

I  cannot  wake  the  notes  of  old. 
Or  e'en  were  mine  a  wizard  shell 

Could  chain  a  world  in  raptures  high, 
Yet  now  a  sad  "  Farewell !  farewell !" — 

Must  on  its  last  faint  echoes  die. 


WALLACE.  413 

Ambition,  Fashion,  Show,  and  Pride, — 

I  part  from  all  forever  now ; 
Grief,  in  an  overwhelming  tide, 

Has  taught  my  haughty  heart  to  bow. 
Poor  heart !   distracted,  ah,  so  long — 

And  still  its  aching  throb  to  bear ; 
How  broken,  that  was  once  so  strong ! 

How  heavy,  once  so  free  from  care ! 

No  more  for  me  life's  fitful  dream ; — 

Bright  vision,  vanishing  away  ! 
My  bark  requires  a  deeper  stream, 

My  sinking  soul  a  surer  stay. 
By  Death,  stern  sheriff!   all  bereft, 

I  weep,  yet  humbly  kiss  the  rod ; 
The  best  of  all  I  still  have  left— 

My  Faith,  my  Bible,  and  my  GOD. 


iUilltam  1S000  tDallace. 

THE      L  I  B  E  R  T  Y- B  E  L  L.* 

A    SOUND  like  the  sound  of  a  tempest  rolled, 

And  the  heart  of  a  people  stirred, 
For  the  bell  of  Freedom,  at  midnight  tolled, 
Through  a  fettered  land  was  heard : 
And  the  chime  still  rung 
From  its  iron  tongue, 
Steadily  swaying  to  and  fro ; 

Rung  in  Philadelphia,  at  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 


4H  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

And  to  some  it  came 

As  a  breath  of  flame, 

And  to  some  as  a  sound  of  woe. 

Upon  the  tall  mountain,  upon  the  tossed  wave, 

It  was  heard  by  the  fettered,  and  heard  by  the  brave ; 

It  was  heard  in  the  cottage,  and  heard  in  the  hall, 

And  its  chime  gave  a  glorious  summons  to  all. 

The  old  sabre  was  sharpened,  the  time-rusted  blade 

Of  the  bond  started  out  in  the  pioneer's  glade, 

Like  a  herald  of  wrath — and  the  host  was  arrayed  ! 

Along  the  tall  mountain,  along  the  tossed  wave, 

Swept  the  ranks  of  the  bond,  swept  the  ranks  of  the  brave 

And  a  shout  as  of  waters  went  up  to  the  dome, 

And  a  sun-drinking  banner  unfurled, 
Like  an  archangel's  pinion  flashed  out  from  his  home, 

Uttered  freedom  and  hope  to  the  world. 
O'er  the  mountain  and  tide  its  magnificent  fold, 
With  a  terrible  glitter  of  azure  and  gold, 
In  the  storm  and  the  sunshine  forever  unrolled. 
It  blazed  in  the  valley ;  it  blazed  on  the.  mast ; 
It  flew  like  a  comrade  abroad  with  the  blast ; 
And  the  eyes  of  whole  nations  were  turned  to  its  light ; 

And  the  hearts  of  the  multitude  soon 
Were  swayed  by  its  stars  as  they  shone  through  the  night, 

Like  an  ocean  when  swayed  by  the  moon. 

Again  through  the  midnight  that  bell  thunders  out, 

And  banners  and  torches  are  hurried  about. 

A  shout  as  of  waters,  a  long-uttered  cry  ! 

How  it  leaps,  how  it  leaps  from  the  earth  to  the  sky ! 

From  the  sky  to  the  earth,  from  the  earth  to  the  sea, 

Hear  the  chorus  re-echoed,  "  The  people  are  free  /" 


WALLACE.  415 

That  old  bell  is  still  seen  by  the  patriot's  eye, 

And  he  blesses  it  ever  when  journeying  by : 

Long  years  have  passed  over  it,  and  yet  every  soul 

Must  thrill  in  the  night  to  its  deep,  solemn  roll ; 

For  it  speaks  in  its  belfry  when  kissed  by  the  blast, 

Like  a  broad  blessing  breathed  from  the  lips  of  the  Past. 

Long  years  will  roll  o'er  it,  and  yet  every  chime 

Must  unceasingly  tell  of  an  era  sublime, 

And  more  splendid,  more  dear  than  the  rest  of  all  Time. 

Oh,  yes !  if  the  flame  on  our  altars  should  pale, 
Let  its  voice  but  be  heard,  and  the  freeman  will  start 

To  rekindle  the  fire,  while  he  sees  on  the  gale 
All  the  stars,  all  the  stripes  of  the  flag  of  his  heart. 


THE     SWORD     OF     BUNKER     HILL. 

"  '76    IS    FOREVER    TO    BE    SUNG." Anon. 

TTE  lay  upon  his  dying  bed, 
-*•  •*"      His  eye  was  growing  dim, 
When  with  a  feeble  voice  he  called 

His  weeping  son  to  him : 
"  Weep  not,  my  boy,"  the  veteran  said, 

"  I  bow  to  Heaven's  high  will ; 
But  quickly  from  yon  antlers  bring 

The  sword  of  Bunker  Hill." 

The  sword  was  brought ;  the  soldier's  eye 

Lit  with  a  sudden  flame ; 
And,  as  he  grasped  the  ancient  blade, 

He  murmured  WARREN'S  name ; 


G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Then  said — "  My  boy,  I  leave  you  gold, 

But,  what  is  richer  still, 
I  leave  you — mark  me,  mark  me  now — 

The  sword  of  Bunker  Hill ! 

"  'Twas  on  that  dread,  immortal  day, 

I  dared  the  Briton's  band ; 
A  captain  raised  this  blade  on  me — 

I  tore  it  from  his  hand  ! 
And  while  the  glorious  battle  raged, 

It  lightened  Freedom's  will ; 
For,  boy,  the  GOD  of  Freedom's  blessed 

The  sword  of  Bunker  Hill. 

"  Oh,  keep  the  sword  !" — his  accents  broke- 

A  smile,  and  he  was  dead ; 
But  his  wrinkled  hand  still  grasped  the  blade 

Upon  that  dying  bed. 
The  son  remains,  the  sword  remains, 

Its  glory  growing  still, 
And  twenty  millions  bless  the  sire 

And  sword  of  Bunker  Hill. 


VISIONS     OF     LIGHT. 

'  I  AHE  moon  is  rising  in  beauty, 

"*•      The  sky  is  solemn  and  bright, 

And  the  waters  are  singing  like  lovers 

That  walk  in  the  valleys  at  night. 


ALICE    CAREY.  417 

Like  the  towers  of  an  ancient  city, 

That  darken  against  the  sky, 
Seems  the  blue  mist  of  the  river 

O'er  the  hill-tops  far  and  high. 

I  see  through  the  gathering  darkness 

The  spire  of  the  village  church, 
And  the  pale  white  tombs,  half  hidden 

By  the  tasselled  willow  and  birch. 

Vain  is  the  golden  drifting 

Of  morning  light  on  the  hill ; 
No  white  hand  opens  the  windows 

Of  those  chambers  low  and  still. 

But  their  dwellers  were  all  my  kindred, 

Whatever  their  lives  might  be, 
And  their  sufferings  and  achievements 

Have  recorded  lessons  for  me. 

Not  one  of  the  countless  voyagers 

Of  life's  mysterious  main, 
Has  laid  down  his  burden  of  sorrows, 

Who  hath  lived  and  loved  in  vain. 

From  the  bards  of  the  elder  ages 

Fragments  of  song  float  by, 
Like  flowers  in  the  strea'ms  of  summer, 

Or  stars  in  the  midnight  sky. 

Some  plumes  in  the  dust  are  scattered, 

Where  the  eagles  of  Persia  flew, 
And  wisdom  is  reaped  from  the  furrows 

The  plough  of  the  Roman  drew. 


418  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

From  the  white  tents  of  the  crusaders 
The  phantoms  of  glory  are  gone, 

But  the  zeal  of  the  barefooted  hermit 
In  humanity's  heart  lives  on. 

Oh,  sweet  as  the  bell  of  the  Sabbath 
In  the  tower  of  the  village  church, 

Or  the  fall  of  the  yellow  moonbeams 
In  the  tasselled  willow  and  birch — 

Comes  a  thought  of  the  blessed  issues 
That  shall  follow  our  social  strife, 

When  the  spirit  of  love  maketh  perfect 
The  beautiful  mission  of  life  : 

For  visions  of  light  are  gathered 
In  the  sunshine  of  flowery  nooks, 

Like  the  shades  of  the  ghostly  Fathers 
In  their  twilight  cells  of  books ! 


HARVEST-TIME. 

OD'S  blessing  on  the  reapers  !  all  day  long 

A  quiet  sense  of  peace  my  spirit  fills, 
As  whistled  fragments  of  untutored  song 

Blend  with  the  rush  of  sickles  on  the  hills : 
And  the  blue  wild-flowers  and  green  brier-leaves 
Are  brightly  tangled  with  the  yellow  sheaves. 

Where  straight  and  even  the  new  furrows  lie, 
The  cornstalks  in  their  rising  beauty  stand  ; 


ALICE    CAREY.  419 

Heaven's  loving  smile  upon  man's  industry 

Makes  beautiful  with  plenty  the  wide  land. 
The  barns,  pressed  out  with  the  sweet  hay,  I  see, 
And  feel  how  more  than  good  GOD  is  to  me  ! 

In  the  cool  thicket  the  red-robin  sings, 
And  merrily  before  the  mower's  scythe 

Chirps  the  green  grasshopper,  while  slowly  swings, 
In  the  scarce-swaying  air,  the  willow  lithe ; 

And  clouds  sail  softly  through  the  upper  calms, 

White  as  the  fleeces  of  the  unshorn  lambs. 

Outstretched  beneath  the  venerable  trees, 

Conning  his  long,  hard  task,  the  schoolboy  lies, 

And,  like  a  fickle  wooer,  the  light  breeze 

Kisses  his  brow ;  then,  scarcely  sighing,  flies ; 

And  all  about  him  pinks  and  lilies  stand, 

Painting  with  beauty  the  wide  pasture-land. 

Oh,  there  are  moments  when  we  half  forget 
The  rough,  harsh  grating  of  the  file  of  Time, 

And  I  believe  that  angels  come  down  yet 
And  walk  with  us,  as  in  the  Eden  clime ; 

Binding  the  heart  away  from  woe  and  strife, 

With  leaves  of  healing  from  the  Tree  of  Life. 

And  they  are  most  unworthy  who  behold 
The  bountiful  provisions  of  GOD'S  care, 

When  reapers  sing  among  the  harvest-gold, 
And  the  mown  meadow  scents  the  quiet  air, 

And  yet  who  never  say,  with  all  their  heart, 

"  How  good,  my  Father,  oh,  how  good  Thou  art !" 


420  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 


(ft  1)0 mas  lUtlliam  jjJarsona. 

HUDSON     RIVER. 

T^  IVERS  that  roll  most  musical  in  song 
•^  Are  often  lovely  to  the  mind  alone ; 
The  wanderer  muses,  as  he  moves  along 

Their  barren  banks,  on  glories  not  their  own. 

When,  to  give  substance  to  his  boyish  dreams, 
He  leaves  his  own,  far  countries  to  survey, 

Oft  must  he  think,  in  greeting  foreign  streams, 
"Their  names  alone  are  beautiful,  not  they." 

If  chance  he  mark  the  dwindled  Arno  pour 
A  tide  more  meagre  than  his  native  Charles ; 

Or  views  the  Rhone  when  summer's  heat  is  o'er, 
Subdued  and  stagnant  in  the  fen  of  Aries ; 

Or  when  he  sees  the  slimy  Tiber  fling 
His  sullen  tribute  at  the  feet  of  Rome, 

Oft  to  his  thought  must  partial  Memory  bring 
More  noble  waves,  without  renown,  at  home : 

Now  let  him  climb  the  Catskill,  to  behold 
The  lordly  HUDSON,  marching  to  the  main, 

And  say  what  bard,  in  any  land  of  old, 
Had  such  a  river  to  inspire  his  strain  ! 

Along  the  Rhine,  gray  battlements  and  towers 
Declare  what  robbers  once  the  realm  possessed ; 

But  here  Heaven's  handiwork  surpasseth  ours, 
And  man  has  hardly  more  than  built  his  nest. 


PARSONS.  421 

No  storied  castle  overawes  these  heights, 

Nor  antique  arches  check  the  current's  play, 

Nor  mouldering  architrave  the  mind  invites 
To  dream  of  deities  long  passed  away. 

No  Gothic  buttress,  or  decaying  shaft 

Of  marble,  yellowed  by  a  thousand  years, 

Lifts  a  great  landmark  to  the  little  craft, 

A  summer  cloud  !   that  comes  and  disappears : 

But  cliffs,  unaltered  from  their  primal  form 
Since  the  subsiding  of  the  Deluge,  rise, 

And  hold  their  savins  to  the  upper  storm, 
While  far  below  the  skiff  securely  plies. 

Farms,  rich  not  more  in  meadows  than  in  men 
Of  Saxon  mould,  and  strong  for  every  toil, 

Spread  o'er  the  plain,  or  scatter  through  the  glen, 
Boeotian  plenty  on  a  Spartan  soil. 

Then,  where  the  reign  of  Cultivation  ends, 

Again  the  charming  wilderness  begins ; 
From  steep  to  steep  one  solemn  wood  extends, 

Till  some  new  hamlet's  rise  the  boscage  thins. 

And  these  deep  groves  forever  have  remained 

Touched  by  no  axe — by  no  proud  owner  nursed : 

As  now  they  stand  they  stood  when  PHARAOH  reigned, 
Lineal  descendants  of  Creation's  first. 

Thou  Scottish  Tweed,  a  sacred  streamlet  now 
Since  thy  last  minstrel  laid  him  down  to  die, 

Where  through  the  casement  of  his  chamber  thou 
Didst  mix  thy  moan  with  his  departing  sigh  ;  — 
I9* 


422  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

A  few  of  Hudson's  more  majestic  hills 

Might  furnish  forests  for  the  whole  of  thine, 

Hide  in  thick  shade  all  Humber's  feeding  rills, 
And  darken  all  the  fountains  of  the  Tyne. 

Name  all  the  floods  that  pour  from  Albion's  heart, 
To  float  her  citadels  that  crowd  the  sea, 

In  what,  except  the  meaner  pomp  of  Art, 
Sublimer  Hudson  !  can  they  rival  thee  ? 

Could  boastful  Thames  with  all  his  riches  buy, 

To  deck  the  strand  which  London  loads  with  gold, 

Sunshine  so  bright — such  purity  of  sky — 
As  bless  thy  sultry  season  and  thy  cold  ? 

No  tales,  we  know,  are  chronicled  of  thee 

In  ancient  scrolls ;  no  deeds  of  doubtful  claim 

Have  hung  a  history  on  every  tree, 

And  given  each  rock  its  fable  and  a  fame. 

But  neither  here  hath  any  conqueror  trod, 
Nor  grim  invader  from  barbarian  climes ; 

No  horrors  feigned  of  giant  or  of  god 

Pollute  thy  stillness  with  recorded  crimes. 

Here  never  yet  have  happy  fields,  laid  waste, 
The  ravished  harvest  and  the  blasted  fruit, 

The  cottage  ruined,  and  the  shrine  defaced, 
Tracked  the  foul  passage  of  the  feudal  brute. 

"  Yet,  O  Antiquity  !"  the  stranger  sighs, 

"  Scenes  wanting  thee  soon  pall  upon  the  view ; 

The  soul's  indifference  dulls  the  sated  eyes, 
Where  all  is  fair  indeed — but  all  is  new." 


PABSONS.  423 

False  thought !   is  age  to  crumbling  walls  confined, 
To  Grecian  fragments  and  Egyptian  bones  ? 

Hath  Time  no  monuments  to  raise  the  mind, 
More  than  old  fortresses  and  sculptured  stones  ? 

Call  not  this  new  which  is  the  only  land 

That  wears  unchanged  the  same  primeval  face 

Which,  when  just  dawning  from  its  Maker's  hand, 
Gladdened  the  first  great  grandsire  of  our  race. 

Nor  did  Euphrates  with  an  earlier  birth 

Glide  past  green  Eden  towards  the  unknown  South, 
Than  Hudson  broke  upon  the  infant  Earth, 

And  kissed  the  Ocean  with  his  nameless  mouth. 

Twin-born  with  Jordan,  Ganges,  and  the  Nile  ! 

Thebes  and  the  Pyramids  to  thee  are  young ; 
Oh,  had  thy  waters  burst  from  Britain's  isle, 

Till  now  perchance  they  had  not  flowed  unsung  ! 


ON     A     LADY     SINGING. 

T  as  my  lady  sang  for  me 

That  song  of  the  lost  one  that  sleeps  by  the  sea, 
Of  the  grave  on  the  rock,  and  the  cypress-tree, 
Strange  was  the  pleasure  that  over  me  stole, 
For  'twas  made  of  old  sadness  that  lives  in  my  soul. 

So  still  grew  my  heart  at  each  tender  word, 
That  the  pulse  in  my  bosom  scarcely  stirred, 
And  I  hardly  breathed,  but  only  heard : 

Where  was  I  ? — not  in  the  world  of  men, 

Until  she  awoke  me  with  silence  again. 


4-24  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

Like  the  smell  of  the  vine,  when  its  early  bloom 
Sprinkles  the  green  lane  with  sunny  perfume, 
Such  a  delicate  fragrance  rilled  the  room  : 
Whether  it  came  from  the  vine  without, 
Or  arose  from  her  presence,  I  dwell  in  doubt. 

Light  shadows  played  on  the  pictured  wall 
From  the  maples  that  fluttered  outside  the  hall, 
And  hindered  the  daylight — yet  ah  !  not  all ; 

Too  little  for  that  all  the  forest  would  be, — 

Such  a  sunbeam  she  was,  and  is,  to  me  ! 

When  my  sense  returned,  as  the  song  was  o'er, 

I  fain  would  have  said  to  her,  "  Sing  it  once  more," 

But  soon  as  she  smiled  my  wish  I  forbore  : 

Music  enough  in  her  look  I  found, 

And  the  hush  of  her  lip  seemed  sweet  as  the  sound. 


THE     CHRISTIAN     WOMAN. 

,  beautiful  as  Morning  in  those  hours 
Vv  nen,  as  her  pathway  lies  along  the  hills, 
Her  golden  fingers  wake  the  dewy  flowers, 
And  softly  touch  the  waters  of  the  rills, 
Was  she  who  walked  more  faintly  day  by  day 
Till  silently  she  perished  by  the  way. 

It  was  not  hers  to  know  that  perfect  heaven 
Of  passionate  love  returned  by  love  as  deep ; 


PIKE  BE    CAREY.  425 

Not  hers  to  sing  the  cradle-song  at  even, 

Watching  the  beauty  of  her  babe  asleep ; 
"  Mother  and  brethren" — these  she  had  not  known, 
Save  such  as  do  the  Father's  will  alone. 

Yet  found  she  something  still  for  which  to  live — 
Hearths  desolate,  where  angel-like  she  came, 

And  "  little  ones"  to  whom  her  hand  could  give 
A  cup  of  water  in  her  Master's  name ; 

And  breaking  hearts  to  bind  away  from  death, 

With  the  soft  hand  of  pitying  Love  and  Faith. 

She  never  won  the  voice  of  popular  praise ; 

But,  counting  earthly  triumph  as  but  dross, 
Seeking  to  keep  her  Saviour's  perfect  ways, 

Bearing  in  the  still  path  His  blessed  cross, 
She  made  her  life,  while  with  us  here  she  trod, 
A  consecration  to  the  will  of  GOD  ! 

And  she  hath  lived  and  laboured  not  in  vain  : 
Through  the  deep  prison-cells  her  accents  thrill, 

And  the  sad  slave  leans  idly  on  his  chain, 
And  hears  the  music  of  her  singing  still ; 

While  little  children,  with  their  innocent  praise, 

Keep  freshly  in  men's  hearts  her  Christian  ways. 

And  what  a  beautiful  lesson  she  made  known  ! — 
The  whiteness  of  her  soul  sin  could  not  dim  ; 

Ready  to  lay  down  on  GOD'S  altar-stone 
The  dearest  treasure  of  her  life  for  Him. 

Her  flame  of  sacrifice  never,  never  waned  : 

How  could  she  live  and  die  so  self-sustained  ? 


426  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

For  friends  supported  not  her  parting  soul, 

And  whispered  words  of  comfort  kind  and  sweet, 

When  treading  onward  to  that  final  goal 

Where  the  still  bridegroom  waited  for  her  feet ; 

Alone  she  walked,  yet  with  a  fearless  tread, 
'    Down  to  Death's  chamber,  and  his  bridal  bed  ' 


<EI)oma0  Bucljancw  Ueab. 

THE     STRANGER     ON     THE     SILL. 

ETWEEN  broad  fields  of  wheat  and  corn 

Is  the  lowly  home  where  I  was  born ; 
The  peach-tree  leans  against  the  wall, 
And  the  woodbine  wanders  over  all ; 
There  is  the  shaded  doorway  still, 
But  a  stranger's  foot  has  crossed  the  sill. 

There  is  the  barn — and,  as  of  yore, 

I  can  smell  the  hay  from  the  open  door, 

And  see  the  busy  swallow's  throng, 

And  hear  the  pewee's  mournful  song ; 

But  the  stranger  comes — oh  !  painful  proof — 

His  sheaves  are  piled  to  the  heated  roof. 

There  is  the  orchard — the  very  trees 
Where  my  childhood  knew  long  hours  of  ease, 
And  watched  the  shadowy  moments  run 
Till  my  life  imbibed  more  shade  than  sun ; 
The  swing  from  the  bough  still  sweeps  the  air, 
But  the  stranger's  children  are  swinging  there. 


READ,  427 

There  bubbles  the  shady  spring  below, 

With  its  bulrush  brook  where  the  hazels  grow ; 

'Twas  there  I  found  the  calamus-root, 

And  watched  the  minnows  poise  and  shoot, 

And  heard  the  robin  lave  its  wing, 

But  the  stranger's  bucket  is  at  the  spring. 

O  ye,  who  daily  cross  the  sill, 

Step  lightly,  for  I  love  it  still ; 

And  when  you  crowd  the  old  barn-eaves, 

Then  think  what  countless  harvest-sheaves 

Have  passed  within  that  scented  door 

To  gladden  eyes  that  are  no  more  ! 

Deal  kindly  with  these  orchard-trees ; 
And  when  your  children  crowd  their  knees 
Their  sweetest  fruit  they  shall  impart, 
As  if  old  memories  stirred  their  heart : 
To  youthful  sport  still  leave  the  swing, 
And  in  sweet  reverence  hold  the  spring. 

The  barn,  the  trees,  the  brook,  the  birds, 
The  meadows  with  their  lowing  herds, 
The  woodbine  on  the  cottage  wall — 
My  heart  still  lingers  with  them  all. 
Ye  strangers  on  my  native  sill, 
Step  lightly,  for  I  love  it  still ! 


PASSING    THE     ICEBERGS. 

A     FEARLESS  shape  of  brave  device, 

Our  vessel  drives  through  mist  and  rain, 
Between  the  floating  fleets  of  ice — 
The  navies  of  the  northern  main. 


428  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

These  arctic  ventures,  blindly  hurled 
The  proofs  of  Nature's  olden  force — 

Like  fragments  of  a  crystal  world 

Long  shattered  from  its  skyey  course. 

These  are  the  buccaneers  that  fright 
The  middle  sea  with  dream  of  wrecks, 

And  freeze  the  south  winds  in  their  flight, 
And  chain  the  Gulf-stream  to  their  decks. 

At  every  dragon  prow  and  helm 

There  stands  some  Viking  as  of  yore ; 

Grim  heroes  from  the  boreal  realm 
Where  ODIN  rules  the  spectral  shore. 

And  oft  beneath  the  sun  or  moon 

Their  swift  and  eager  falchions  glow — 

While,  like  a  storm-vexed  wind,  the  rune 
Comes  chafing  through  some  beard  of  snow, 

And  when  the  far  north  flashes  up 
With  fires  of  mingled  red  and  gold, 

They  know  that  many  a  blazing  cup 
Is  brimming  to  the  absent  bold. 

Up  signal  there,  and  let  us  hail 
Yon  looming  phantom  as  we  pass ! 

Note  all  her  fashion,  hull,  and  sail, 
Within  the  compass  of  your  glass. 

See  at  her  mast  the  steadfast  glow 
Of  that  one  star  of  ODIN'S  throne ; 

Up  with  our  flag,  and  let  us  show 
The  Constellation  on  our  own  ! 


READ.  429 

And  speak  her  well ;  for  she  might  say, 
If  from  her  heart  the  words  could  thaw, 

Great  news  from  some  far  frozen  bay, 
Or  the  remotest  Esquimaux. 

Might  tell  of  channels  yet  untold, 
That  sweep  the  pole  from  sea  to  sea ; 

Of  lands  which  GOD  designs  to  hold 
A  mighty  people  yet  to  be  : — 

Of  wonders  which  alone  prevail 

Where  day  and  darkness  dimly  meet ; — 

Of  all  which  spreads  the  arctic  sail ; 
Of  FRANKLIN  and  his  venturous  fleet : 

How,  haply,  at  some  glorious  goal 

His  anchor  holds — his  sails  are  furled ; 

That  Fame  has  named  him  on  her  scroll, 
"  COLUMBUS  of  the  Polar  World." 

Or  how  his  ploughing  barks  wedge  on 

Through  splintering  fields,  with  battered  shares, 

Lit  only  by  that  spectral  dawn, 

The  mask  that  mocking  Darkness  wears ; — 

Or  how,  o'er  embers  black  and  few, 

The  last  of  shivered  masts  and  spars, 
He  sits  amid  his  frozen  crew 

In  council  with  the  Norland  stars. 

No  answer  but  the  sullen  flow 

Of  Ocean  heaving  long  and  vast ; — 
An  argosy  of  ice  and  snow, 

The  voiceless  North  swings  proudly  past. 


A 


43°  G  OLDEN   LEAVES. 

THE     SEA-KING. 
(FROM   "THE   HOUSE  BY  THE  SEA.") 

MONARCH  reigned  beneath  the  sea 

On  the  wreck  of  a  myriad  thrones, — 
The  collected  ruins  of  Tyranny, 
Shattered  by  the  hand  of  Destiny, 
And  scattered  abroad  with  maniac  glee, 

Like  a  gibbeted  pirate's  bones. 

Alone,  supreme,  he  reigned  apart, 

On  the  throne  of  a  myriad  thrones, — 
Where,  sitting  close  to  the  world's  red  heart, 
Which  pulsed  swift  heat  through  his  ocean  mart, 
He  could  hear  each  heavy  throe  and  start, 
As  she  heaved  her  earthquake  groans. 

He  gazed  through  the  shadowy  deep  which  shields 
His  throne  of  a  myriad  thrones, — 

And  saw  the  many  variant  keels 

Driving  over  the  watery  fields, 

Some  with  thunderous  and  flashing  wheels 
Linking  the  remotest  zones. 

Oft,  like  an  eagle  that  swoops  in  air, 

He  saw,  from  his  throne  of  thrones, 
The  winged  anchors  with  eager  stare 
Leap  midway  down  to  the  Ocean's  lair — 
While  hanging  plummets  gazed  in  despair 
At  the  unreached  sands  and  stones ! 

Along  his  realm  lie  mountainous  bulks, 

The  tribute  to  his  throne  of  thrones, — 


HOLMES.  431 

The  merchant's  and  the  pirate's  hulks, — 
And  where  the  ghost  of  the  slaver  skulks, 
Counting  his  cargo, — then  swears  and  sulks 
Among  the  manacled  bones ! 

His  navy  numbers  many  a  bark, 

The  pride  of  his  throne  of  thrones : — 

Golden  by  day  and  fiery  by  dark, 

Each  cleaves  his  pathway  like  a  shark  ! 

But  his  favourite  barge  is  a  dragon-ark, 
The  fairest  ship  he  owns ! 

The  voice  of  that  princess  beneath  the  sea 
Reached  to  his  throne  of  thrones; — 

Then  he  leaped  in  his  barge  right  gallantly, 

And  cried,  "  My  child,  come  sail  with  me ; 

We  will  flash  to  sunward  far  and  free, 
Till  love  for  thy  grief  atones  !" 


©Itoer  llUnbell  djolmca. 

ON     LENDING     A     PUNCH-BOWL. 

ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine, — it  tells  of  good  old 

times, 
Of  joyous   days,   and  jolly  nights,  and   merry    Christmas 

chimes ; 
They  were  a  free  and  jovial  race,  but  honest,  brave,  and 

true, 
That  dipped  their  ladle  in  the  punch  when  this  old  bowl 

was  new. 


43 2  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

A  Spanish  galleon  brought  the  bar, — so  runs  the  ancient 

tale! 
'Twas  hammered   by  an  Antwerp  smith,  whose  arm  was 

like  a  flail ; 
And  now  and  then  between  the  strokes,  for  fear  his  strength 

should  fail, 
He  wiped  his  brow,  and  quaffed  a  cup  of  good  old  Flemish 

ale. 

'Twas  purchased  by  an  English  squire  to  please  his  loving 
dame, 

Who  saw  the  cherubs,  and  conceived  a  longing  for  the 
same; 

And  oft  as  on  the  ancient  stock  another  twig  was  found, 

'Twas  filled  with  caudle  spiced  and  hot,  and  handed  smo- 
king round. 

But,  changing  hands,  it  reached  at  length  a  Puritan  divine, 
Who  used  to  follow  TIMOTHY,  and  take  a  little  wine, 
But  hated  punch  and  prelacy ;   and  so  it  was,  perhaps, 
He  went   to   Leyden,   where   he   found  conventicles  and 
schnaps. 

And  then,  of  course,  you  know  what's  next, — it  left  the 

Dutchman's  shore 
With  those  that  in  the  Mayflower  came, — a  hundred  souls 

and  more, — 

Along  with  all  the  furniture,  to  fill  their  new  abodes, — 
To  judge  by  what  is  still  on  hand,  at  least  a  hundred  loads. 

'Twas   on   a   dreary   winter's   eve,    the   night   was   closing 

dim, 
When  old  MILES  STANDISH  took  the  bowl,  and  filled  it  to 

the  brim  ; 


HOLMES.  433 

The  little  Captain  stood  and  stirred  the  posset  with  his 

sword, 
And   all    his   sturdy   men-at-arms  were   ranged   about  the 

board. 

He  poured  the  fiery  Hollands   in, — the  man   that  never 

feared, — 
He  took  a  long  and  solemn  draught,  and  wiped  his  yellow 

beard; 
And  one  by  one  the  musketeers, — the  men  that  fought  and 

prayed — 
All  drank  as  'twere  their  mother's  milk,  and  not  a  man 

afraid. 

That  night,  affrighted  from  his  nest,  the  screaming  eagle 

flew— 
He  heard  the  Pequot's  ringing  whoop,  the  soldier's  wild 

halloo ; 
And  there  the  sachem  learned  the  rule  he  taught  to  kith 

and  kin, 
"Run  from  the  white  man  when  you  find  he  smells  of 

Hollands  gin  !" 

A  hundred  years,  and  fifty  more,  had  spread  their  leaves 

and  snows, 
A  thousand  rubs  had  flattened  down  each  little  cherub's 

nose, 
When  once  again  the  bowl  was  filled,  but  not  in  mirth  or 

j°y— 

'Twas  mingled  by  a  mother's  hand  to  cheer  her  parting 
boy. 

"  Drink,  JOHN,"  she  said,  "  'twill  do  you  good — poor  child, 
you'll  never  bear 


434  G  OLDEN  LEAVE  S. 

This  working  in  the  dismal  trench,  out  in  the  midnight 

air; 
And  if — GOD   bless  me  ! — you   were   hurt,    'twould   keep 

away  the  chill ;" 
So  JOHN  did  drink, — and  well  he  wrought  that  night  at 

Bunker's  Hill ! 

I  tell  you,  there  was  generous  warmth  in  good  old  English 

cheer  ; 
I  tell  you,  'twas  a  pleasant  thought    to   bring  its   symbol 

here. 
'Tis  but  the  fool  that  loves  excess ; — hast  thou  a  drunken 

soul  ? 
Thy  bane  is  in  thy  shallow  skull,  not  in  my  silver  bowl ! 

1  love  the  memory  of  the  past, — its   pressed  yet  fragrant 

flowers — 
The  moss   that  clothes  its  broken  walls, — the  ivy  on  its 

towers ; — 
Nay,  this  poor  bawble  it  bequeathed — my  eyes  grow  moist 

and  dim, 
To  think  of  all  the  vanished  joys  that  danced  around  its 

brim. 

Then  fill  a  fair  and  honest  cup,  and  bear  it   straight   to 

me; 

The  goblet  hallows  all  it  holds,  whate'er  the  liquid  be ; 
And    may  the   cherubs   on  its  face   protect   me  from    the 

sin 
That  dooms   one   to   those  dreadful  words, — "  My  dear, 

where  have  you  been  ?" 


HOLMES.  435 


THE     OLD     CONSTITUTION. 

A  Y,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle-shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar ; 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more  ! 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee ; 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea  ! 

Oh,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave ; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave ; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, — 

The  lightning  and  the  gale  ! 


436  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 


THE     MUSIC  -GRINDERS. 


*~P*HERE  are  three  ways  in  which  men  take 

•*•     One's  money  from  his  purse  ; 
And  very  hard  it  is  to  tell 

Which  of  the  three  is  worse  ; 
But  all  of  them  are  bad  enough 

To  make  a  body  curse. 

You're  riding  out  some  pleasant  day, 

And  counting  up  your  gains  ; 
A  fellow  jumps  from  out  a  bush 

And  takes  your  horse's  reins, 
Another  hints  some  words  about 

A  bullet  in  your  brains. 

It's  hard  to  meet  such  pressing  friends 

In  such  a  lonely  spot  ; 
It's  very  hard  to  lose  your  cash, 

But  harder  to  be  shot  ; 
And  so  you  take  your  wallet  out, 

Though  you  would  rather  not. 

Perhaps  you're  going  out  to  dine,  — 

Some  filthy  creature  begs 
You'll  hear  about  the  cannon-ball 

That  carried  off  his  pegs, 
And  says  it  is  a  dreadful  thing 

For  men  to  lose  their  legs. 

He  tells  you  of  his  starving  wife, 
His  children  to  be  fed  — 


HOLMES.  437 

Poor  little  lovely  innocents, 

All  clamorous  for  bread, — • 
And  so  you  kindly  help  to  put 

A  bachelor  to  bed. 

You're  sitting  on  your  window-seat, 

Beneath  a  cloudless  moon  ; 
You  hear  a  sound  that  seems  to  wear 

The  semblance  of  a  tune, 
As  if  a  broken  fife  should  strive 

To  drown  a  cracked  bassoon* 

And  nearer,  nearer  still,  the  tide 

Of  music  seems  to  come — 
There's  something  like  a  human  voice, 

And  something  like  a  drum  ; 
You  sit  in  speechless  agony, 

Until  your  ear  is  numb. 

Poor  "home,  sweet  home"  should  seem  to  be 

A  very  dismal  place ; 
Your  "  auld  acquaintance"  all  at  once 

Is  altered  in  the  face ; 
Their  discords  sting  through  BURNS  and  MOORE, 

Like  hedgehogs  dressed  in  lace. 

You  think  they  are  crusaders,  Sent 

From  some  infernal  clime, 
To  pluck  the  eyes  of  Sentiment, 

And  dock  the  tail  of  Rhyme, — 
To  crack  the  voice  of  Melody, 

And  break  the  legs  of  Time. 

But  hark  !   the  air  again  is  still, 
The  music  all  is  ground, 


438  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

And  silence,  like  a  poultice,  comes 
To  heal  the  blows  of  sound ; 

It  cannot  be, — it  is — it  is, — 
A  hat  is  going  round  ! 

No ! — Pay  the  dentist  when  he  leaves 
A  fracture  in  your  jaw, 

And  pay  the  owner  of  the  bear 

That  stunned  you  with  his  paw, 

And  buy  the  lobster  that  has  had 
Your  knuckles  in  his  claw ; — 

But  if  you  are  a  portly  man, 
Put  on  your  fiercest  frown, 

And  talk  about  a  constable 

To  turn  them  out  of  town ; 

Then  close  your  sentence  with  an  oath. 
And  shut  the  window  down  ! 

And  if  you  are  a  slender  man, 
Not  big  enough  for  that, 

Or,  if  you  cannot  make  a  speech, 
Because  you  are  a  flat, 

Go  very  quietly  and  drop 
A  button  in  the  hat ! 


THE     LIVING     TEMPLE. 


in  the  world  of  light  alone, 
Where  GOD  has  built  His  blazing  throne, 
Nor  yet  alone  in  earth  below, 
With  belted  seas  that  come  and  go, 


HOLMES.  439 

And  endless  isles  of  sunlit  green, 
Is  all  thy  Maker's  glory  seen  : 
Look  in  upon  thy  wondrous  frame,  — 
Eternal  wisdom  still  the  same ! 

The  smooth,  soft  air  with  pulse-like  waves 
Flows  murmuring  through  its  hidden  caves, 
Whose  streams  of  brightening  purple  rush, 
Fired  with  a  new  and  livelier  blush, 
While  all  their  burden  of  decay 
The  ebbing  current  steals  away, 
And  red  with  Nature's  flame  they  start 
From  the  warm  fountains  of  the  heart. 

No  rest  that  throbbing  slave  may  ask, 
Forever  quivering  o'er  his  task, 
While  far  and  wide  a  crimson  jet 
Leaps  forth  to  fill  the  woven  net 
Which  in  unnumbered  crossing  tides 
The  flood  of  burning  life  divides ; 
Then,  kindling  each  decaying  part, 
Creeps  back  to  find  the  throbbing  heart. 

But  warmed  with  that  unchanging  flame, 
Behold  the  outward  moving  frame, 
Its  living  marbles  jointed  strong 
With  glistening  band  and  silvery  thong, 
And  linked  to  Reason's  guiding  reins 
By  myriad  rings  in  trembling  chains, 
Each  graven  with  the  threaded  zone 
Which  claims  it  as  the  master's  own. 

See  how  yon  beam  of  seeming  white 
Is  braided  out  of  seven-hued  light, 


440  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

Yet  in  those  lucid  globes  no  ray 
By  any  chance  shall  break  astray. 
Hark  how  the  rolling  surge  of  sound, 
Arches  and  spirals  circling  round, 
Wakes  the  hushed  spirit  through  thine  ear 
With  music  it  is  heaven  to  hear ! 

Then  mark  the  cloven  sphere  that  holds 
All  thought  in  its  mysterious  folds, 
That  feels  sensation's  faintest  thrill, 
And  flashes  forth  the  sovereign  will ; 
Think  on  the  stormy  world  that  dwells 
Locked  in  its  dim  and  clustering  cells  ! 
The  lightning-gleams  of  power  it  sheds 
Along  its  hollow  glassy  threads  ! 

O  Father !  grant  Thy  love  divine 
To  make  these  mystic  temples  thine  ! 
When  wasting  age  and  wearying  strife 
Have  sapped  the  leaning  walls  of  life, 
When  darkness  gathers  over  all, 
And  the  last  tottering  pillars  fall, 
Take  the  poor  dust  Thy  mercy  warms, 
And  mould  it  into  heavenly  forms ! 


3ame0  < 

SLEIGHING -SONG. 

swift  we  go,  o'er  the  fleecy  snow, 
When  moonbeams  sparkle  round  ; 
When  hoofs  keep  time  to  music's  chime, 
As  merrily  on  we  bound. 


FIELDS.  441 

On  a  winter's  night,  when  hearts  are  light, 

And  health  is  on  the  wind, 
We  loose  the  rein  and  sweep  the  plain, 

And  leave  our  cares  behind. 

With  a  laugh  and  song,  we  glide  along 

Across  the  fleeting  snow ; 
With  friends  beside,  how  swift  we  ride 

On  the  beautiful  track  below  ! 

Oh,  the  raging  sea  has  joy  for  me, 

When  gale  and  tempests  roar ; 
But  give  me  the  speed  of  a  foaming  steed, 

And  I'll  ask  for  the  waves  no  more. 


THE     ALPINE     CROSS. 

O  KNIGHTED  once  where  Alpine  storms 
•^-^  Have  buried  hosts  of  martial  forms, 
Halting  with  fear,  benumbed  with  cold, 
While  swift  the  avalanches  rolled, 
Shouted  our  guide,  with  quivering  breath, 
"The  path  is  lost ! — to  move  is  death  !" 

The  savage  snow-cliffs  seemed  to  frown, 
The  howling  winds  came  fiercer  down ; 
Shrouded  in  such  a  dismal  scene, 
No  mortal  aid  whereon  to  lean, 
Think  you  what  music  'twas  to  hear, 
"  I  see  the  Cross ! — our  way  is  clear !" 

We  looked,  and  there,  amid  the  snows, 
A  simple  cross  of  wood  uprose ; 


442  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

Firm  in  the  tempest's  awful  wrath 
It  stood,  to  guide  the  traveller's  path, 
And  point  to  where  the  valley  lies, 
Serene  beneath  the  summer  skies. 

One  dear  companion  of  that  night 
Has  passed  away  from  mortal  sight ; 
He  reached  his  home  to  droop  and  fade, 
And  sleep  within  his  native  glade  ; 
But  as  his  fluttering  hand  I  took, 
Before  he  gave  his  farewell  look, 
He  whispered  from  his  bed  of  pain, 
"  The  Alpine  Cross  I  see  again  !" 
Then,  smiling,  sank  to  endless  rest 
Upon  his  weeping  mother's  breast. 


LAST     WISHES     OF     A     CHILD. 

£(    \  LL  the  hedges  are  in  bloom, 

And  the  warm  west  wind  is  blowing  ; 
Let  me  leave  this  stifled  room — 

Let  me  go  where  flowers  are  growing. 

"  Look  !  my  cheek  is  thin  and  pale, 

And  my  pulse  is  very  low ; 
Ere  my  sight  begins  to  fail, 

Take  my  hand  and  let  us  go ; 

"  Was  not  that  the  robin's  song 

Piping  through  the  casement  wide  ; 

I  shall  not  be  listening  long — 
Take  me  to  the  meadow-side  ! 


FIELDS.  443 

"  Bear  me  to  the  willow-brook — 

Let  me  hear  the  merry  mill — 
On  the  orchard  I  must  look, 

Ere  my  beating  heart  is  still. 

"  Faint  and  fainter  grows  my  breath — 

Bear  me  quickly  down  the  lane ; 
Mother  dear,  this  chill  is  death — 

I  shall  never  speak  again  !" 

Still  the  hedges  are  in  bloom, 

And  the  warm  west  wind  is  blowing ; 

Still  we  sit  in  silent  gloom — 

O'er  her  grave  the  grass  is  growing. 


DIRGE     FOR     A     YOUNG     GIRL. 

T  TNDERNEATH  the  sod,  low  lying, 
^^        Dark  and  drear, 
Sleepeth  one  who  left,  in  dying, 
Sorrow  here. 

Yes,  they're  ever  bending  o'er  her, 

Eyes  that  weep ; 
Forms,  that  to  the  cold  grave  bore  her, 

Vigils  keep. 

When  the  summer  moon  is  shining 

Soft  and  fair, 
Friends  she  loved  in  tears  are  twining 

Chaplets  there. 


444  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Rest  in  peace,  thou  gentle  spirit, 
Throned  above ; 

Souls  like  thine  with  GOD  inherit 
Life  and  love  ! 


BALLAD     OF     THE     TEMPEST. 

TT7E  were  crowded  in  the  cabin, 

Not  a  soul  would  dare  to  sleep ; 
It  was  midnight  on  the  waters, 
And  a  storm  was  on  the  deep. 

*Tis  a  fearful  thing  in  winter 
To  be  shattered  in  the  blast, 

And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet 
Thunder,  "  Cut  away  the  mast !" 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  silence — 
For  the  stoutest  held  his  breath, 

While  the  hungry  sea  was  roaring, 
And  the  breakers  talked  with  Death. 

As  thus  we  sat  in  darkness, 

Each  one  busy  in  his  prayers — 

"  We  are  lost !"  the  captain  shouted, 
As  he  staggered  down  the  stairs. 

But  his  little  daughter  whispered, 

As  she  took  his  icy  hand, 
"  Isn't  GOD  upon  the  ocean, 

Just  the  same  as  on  the  land  ?" 


BOKER.  445 


Then  we  kissed  the  little  maiden, 
And  we  spoke  in  better  cheer, 

And  we  anchored  safe  in  harbour 
When  the  morn  was  shining  clear. 


©eorge  $.  Boker. 

A     BALLAD     OF     SIR     JOHN     FRANKLIN. 

"  The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 
The  ice  was  all  around." — COLERIDGE. 

,  whither  sail  you,  Sir  JOHN  FRANKLIN?" 
Cried  a  whaler  in  Baffin's  Bay. 
"  To  know  if  between  the  land  and  the  pole 
I  may  find  a  broad  sea-way." 

"  I  charge  you  back,  Sir  JOHN  FRANKLIN, 

As  you  would  live  and  thrive ; 
For  between  the  land  and  the  frozen  pole 

No  man  may  sail  alive." 

But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  JOHN, 

And  spoke  unto  his  men : 
"  Half  England  is  wrong  if  he  is  right ; 

Bear  off  to  westward  then." 

"  Oh,  whither  sail  you,  brave  Englishman  ?" 

Cried  the  little  Esquimaux. 
"  Between  your  land  and  the  polar  star 

My  goodly  vessels  go." 


446  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

"  Come  down,  if  you  would  journey  there," 

The  little  Indian  said, 
"  And  change  your  cloth  for  fur  clothing, 

Your  vessel  for  a  sled." 

But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  JOHN, 
And  the  crew  laughed  with  him  too  : 

"A  sailor  to  change  from  ship  to  sled, 
I  ween,  were  something  new !" 

All  through  the  long,  long  polar  day, 

The  vessels  westward  sped  ; 
And  wherever  the  sail  of  Sir  JOHN  was  blown, 

The  ice  gave  way  and  fled — 

Gave  way  with  many  a  hollow  groan, 

And  with  many  a  surly  roar, 
But  it  murmured  and  threatened  on  every  side, 

And  closed  where  he  sailed  before. 

"  Ho  !  see  ye  not,  my  merry  men, 

The  broad  and  open  sea  ? 
Bethink  ye  what  the  whaler  said, 
Think  of  the  little  Indian's  sled  !" 

The  crew  laughed  out  in  glee. 

"  Sir  JOHN,  Sir  JOHN,  'tis  bitter  cold, 

The  scud  drives  on  the  breeze, 
The  ice  comes  looming  from  the  north, 

The  very  sunbeams  freeze." 

"  Bright  summer  goes,  dark  winter  comes — 

We  cannot  rule  the  year ; 
But  long  ere  summer's  sun  goes  down, 

On  yonder  sea  we'll  steer." 


BOKER.  447 

The  dripping  icebergs  dipped  and  rose, 

And  floundered  down  the  gale; 
The  ships  were  stayed,  the  yards  were  manned, 

And  furled  the  useless  sail. 

"  The  summer's  gone,  the  winter's  come, 

We  sail  not  on  yonder  sea  : 
Why  sail  we  not,  Sir  JOHN  FRANKLIN  ?" 

A  silent  man  was  he. 

"  The  summer  goes,  the  winter  comes — 

We  cannot  rule  the  year : 
I  ween,  we  cannot  rule  the  ways, 

Sir  JOHN,  wherein  we'd  steer." 

The  cruel  ice  came  floating  on, 

And  closed  beneath  the  lee, 
Till  the  thickening  waters  dashed  no  more ; 
'Twas  ice  around,  behind,  before — 

My  GOD  !  there  is  no  sea  ! 

"  What  think  you  of  the  whaler  now  ? 

What  of  the  Esquimaux  ? 
A  sled  were  better  than  a  ship, 

To  cruise  through  ice  and  snow." 

Down  sank  the  baleful  crimson  sun, 

The  Northern  Light  came  out, 
And  glared  upon  the  ice-bound  ships, 

And  shook  its  spears  about. 

The  snow  came  down,  storm  breeding  storm, 

And  on  the  decks  was  laid : 
Till  the  weary  sailor,  sick  at  heart, 

Sank  down  beside  his  spade. 


448  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

"  Sir  JOHN,  the  night  is  black  and  long, 

The  hissing  wind  is  bleak, 
The  hard,  green  ice  is  strong  as  death : — 

I  prithee,  Captain,  speak  I" 

"  The  night  is  neither  bright  nor  short, 

The  singing  breeze  is  cold, 
The  ice  is  not  so  strong  as  hope — 

The  heart  of  man  is  bold  !"  , 

"  What  hope  can  scale  this  icy  wall, 

High  o'er  the  main  flag-staff? 
Above  the  ridges  the  wolf  and  bear 
Look  down  with  a  patient,  settled  stare, 
Look  down  on  us  and  laugh." 

The  summer  went,  the  winter  came — 

We  could  not  rule  the  year ; 
But  summer  will  melt  the  ice  again, 
And  open  a  path  to  the  sunny  main, 
Whereon  our  ships  shall  steer. 

The  winter  went,  the  summer  went, 

The  winter  came  around  : 
But  the  hard,  green  ice  was  strong  as  death, 
And  the  voice  of  Hope  sank  to  a  breath, 

Yet  caught  at  every  sound. 

"  Hark  !   heard  ye  not  the  noise  of  guns  ? 

And  there,  and  there,  again  ?" 
"  'Tis  some  uneasy  iceberg's  roar, 

As  he  turns  in  the  frozen  main." 


BOKER.  449 

"  Hurrah  !   hurrah  !   the  Esquimaux 

Across  the  ice-fields  steal." 
"  GOD  give  them  grace  for  their  charity  ! 

Ye  pray  for  the  silly  seal." 

"  Sir  JOHN,  where  are  the  English  fields, 

And  where  are  the  English  trees, 
And  where  are  the  little  English  flowers 

That  open  in  the  breeze  ?" 

"  Be  still,  be  still,  my  brave  sailors ! 

You  shall  see  the  fields  again, 
And  smell  the  scent  of  the  opening  flowers, 

The  grass  and  the  waving  grain." 

"  Oh,  when  shall  I  see  my  orphan  child  ? 

My  MARY  waits  for  me." 
"  Oh,  when  shall  I  see  my  old  mother, 

And  pray  at  her  trembling  knee  ?" 

"  Be  still,  be  still,  my  brave  sailors  ! 

Think  not  such  thoughts  again." 
But  a  tear  froze  slowly  on  his  cheek — 

He  thought  of  Lady  JANE. 

Ah  !  bitter,  bitter  grows  the  cold, 

The  ice  grows  more  and  more ; 
More  settled  stare  the  wolf  and  bear, 

More  patient  than  before. 

"  Oh,  think  you,  good  Sir  JOHN  FRANKLIN, 

We'll  ever  see  the  land  ? 
'Twas  cruel  to  send  us  here  to  starve, 
Without  a  helping  hand. 


45°  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

f<  *Twas  cruel,  Sir  JOHN,  to  send  us  here, 

So  far  from  help  or  home, 
To  starve  and  freeze  on  this  lonely  sea : 
I  ween,  the  Lords  of  the  Admiralty 

Would  rather  send  than  come." 

"  Oh,  whether  we  starve  to  death  alone, 

Or  sail  to  our  own  country, 
We  have  done  what  man  has  never  done- 
The  truth  is  founded,  the  secret  won — 
We  passed  the  Northern  Sea  !" 


DIRGE     FOR     A     SOLDIER. 
IN     MEMORY    OF     GENERAL    PHILIP     KEARNEY. 


his  eyes,  his  work  is  done  ! 
What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Rise  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun, 

Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know 
Lay  him  low  ! 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight, 

Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavour  ; 
Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 
Sleep  forever  and  forever. 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know 
Lay  him  low  ! 


STODDARD.  451 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley  ! 
What  to  him  are  all  our  wars, 

What  but  death-bemocking  folly  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  : 
Lay  him  low  ! 

Leave  him  to  GOD'S  watching  eye, 

Trust  him  to  the  Hand  that  made  him. 
Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by : 

GOD  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  : 
Lay  him  low  ! 


(ijenrg  Stobbarb. 

HYMN     TO     THE     BEAUTIFUL. 

TV /TY  heart  is  full  of  tenderness  and  tears, 

•***       And  tears  are  in  mine  eyes,  I  know  not  why ; 

With  all  my  grief,  content  to  live  for  years, 

Or  even  this  hour  to  die. 
My  youth  is  gone,  but  that  I  heed  not  now ; 

My  love  is  dead,  or  worse  than  dead  can  be ; 
My  friends  drop  off  like  blossoms  from  a  bough, 

But  nothing  troubles  me, 


452  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Only  the  golden  flush  of  sunset  lies 
Within  my  heart  like  fire,  like  dew  within  my  eyes ! 

Spirit  of  Beauty  !   whatsoe'er  thou  art, 
I  see  thy  skirts  afar,  and  feel  thy  power ; 
It  is  thy  presence  fills  this  charmed  hour, 

And  fills  my  charmed  heart ; 
Nor  mine  alone,  but  myriads  feel  thee  now, 
That  know  not  what  they  feel,  nor  why  they  bow ; 

Thou  canst  not  be  forgot, 
For  all  men  worship  thee,  and  know  it  not ; 
Nor  men  alone,  but  babes  with  wondrous  eyes, 
New-comers  on  the  earth,  and  strangers  from  the  skies ! 

We  hold  the  keys  of  heaven  within  our  hands, 
The  gift  and  heirloom  of  a  former  state, 
And  lie  in  infancy  at  heaven's  gate, 
Transfigured  in  the  light  that  streams  along  the  lands ! 
Around  our  pillows  golden  ladders  rise, 
And  up  and  down  the  skies, 
With  winged  sandals  shod, 

The  angels  come  and  go,  the  messengers  of  GOD  ! 
Nor  do  they,  fading  from  us,  e'er  depart, — 
It  is  the  childish  heart ; 
We  walk  as  heretofore, 

Adown  their  shining  ranks,  but  see  them  nevermore  ! 
Not  heaven  is  gone,  but  we  are  blind  with  tears, 
Groping  our  way  along  the  downward  slope  of  years ! 

From  earliest  infancy  my  heart  was  thine ; 

With  childish  feet  I  trod  thy  temple  aisles ; 

Not  knowing  tears,  I  worshipped  thee  with  smiles, 
Or  if  I  ever  wept,  it  was  with  joy  divine  ! 


STODDARD.  453 

By  day  and  night,  on  land,  and  sea,  and  air, — 

I  saw  thee  everywhere  ! 
A  voice  of  greeting  from  the  wind  was  sent ; 

The  mists  enfolded  me  with  soft  white  arms ; 
The  birds  did  sing  to  lap  me  in  content, 

The  rivers  wove  their  charms, 
And  every  little  daisy  in  the  grass 
Did  look  up  in  my  face,  and  smile  to  see  me  pass ! 

Not  long  can  Nature  satisfy  the  mind, 

Nor  outward  fancies  feed  its  inner  flame ; 

We  feel  a  growing  want  we  cannot  name, 
And  long  for  something  sweet,  but  undefined ; 
The  wants  of  Beauty  other  wants  create, 
Which  overflow  on  others  soon  or  late ; 
For  all  that  worship  thee  must  ease  the  heart, 

By  Love,  or  Song,  or  Art : 
Divinest  Melancholy  walks  with  thee, 

Her  thin  white  cheek  forever  leaned  on  thine ; 
And  Music  leads  her  sister  Poesy, 

In  exultation  shouting  songs  divine  ! 
But  on  thy  breast  Love  lies, — immortal  child  ! — 
Begot  of  thine  own  longings,  deep  and  wild  : 
The  more  we  worship  him,  the  more  we  grow 
Into  Thy  perfect  image  here  below ; 
For  here  below,  as  in  the  spheres  above, 
All  Love  is  Beauty,  and  all  Beauty  Love  ! 

Not  from  the  things  around  us  do  we  draw 
Thy  light  within  ;   within  the  light  is  born ; 
The  growing  rays  of  some  forgotten  morn, 

And  added  canons  of  eternal  law. 


454  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

The  painter's  picture,  the  rapt  poet's  song, 
The  sculptor's  statue,  never  saw  the  Day ; 
Not  shaped  and  moulded  after  aught  of  clay, 
Whose  crowning  work  still  does  its  spirit  wrong ; 
Hue  after  hue  divinest  pictures  grow, 
Line  after  line  immortal  songs  arise, 
And  limb  by  limb,  out-starting  stern  and  slow, 
The  statue  wakes  with  wonder  in  its  eyes ! 

And  in  the  master's  mind 
Sound  after  sound  is  born,  and  dies  like  wind, 
That  echoes  through  a  range  of  ocean-caves, 
And  straight  is  gone  to 'weave  its  spell  upon  the  waves ! 

The  mystery  is  thine, 

For  thine  the  more  mysterious  human  heart, 
The  temple  of  all  wisdom,  Beauty's  shrine, 
The  oracle  of  Art ! 

Earth  is  thine  outer  court,  and  Life  a  breath ; 
Why  should  we  fear  to  die,  and  leave  the  earth  ? 
Not  thine  alone  the  lesser  key  of  Birth, — 

But  all  the  keys  of  Death ; 
And  all  the  worlds,  with  all  that  they  contain 

Of  Life,  and  Death,  and  Time,  are  thine  alone ; 
The  universe  is  girdled  with  a  chain, 

And  hung  below  the  throne 
Where  Thou  dost  sit,  the  universe  to  bless, — 
Thou  sovereign  smile  of  GOD,  eternal  loveliness ! 


STODDARD.  455 


WILLIAM     SHAKSPEARE. 
A    TERCENTENARY    ODE. 

OHE  sat  in  her  eternal  house, 
^     The  Sovereign  Mother  of  Mankind  ; 
Before  her  was  the  peopled  World, 
The  hollow  Night  behind  ! 

"  Below  my  fe'et  the  thunders  break, 
Above  my  head  the  stars  rejoice ; 
But  Man,  although  he  babbles  much, 
Has  never  found  a  Voice  ! 

"  Ten  thousand  years  have  come  and  gone, 

And  not  an  hour  of  any  day 
But  he  has  dumbly  looked  to  me 

The  things  he  could  not  say  ! 

"  It  shall  be  so  no  more,"  she  said. 

And  then,  revolving  in  her  mind, 

She  thought :  "  I  will  create  a  Child 

Shall  speak  for  all  his  kind." 

It  was  the  spring-time  of  the  year, 

And  lo  !  where  Avon's  waters  flow, 
The  Child,  her  darling,  came  on  earth 
Three  hundred  years  ago. 

There  was  no  portent  in  the  sky, 

No  cry,  like  PAN'S,  along  the  seas ; 
Nor  hovered  round  his  baby  mouth 
The  swarm  of  classic  bees ! 


456  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

What  other  children  were,  he  was, 

If  more,  'twas  not  to  mortal  ken ; 
The  being  likest  to  mankind 

Made  him  the  Man  of  Men  ! 

They  gossipped,  after  he  was  dead, 

Of  how  he  stole  an  old  Knight's  deer ; 
One  thinks  he  was  a  noverint ;   one, 
An  usher ;  naught  is  clear — 

Save  that  he  married,  in  his  youth, 

A  maid,  his  elder ;  went  to  town ; 
Wrote  plays ;  made  money ;  and  at  last 
Came  back,  and  settled  down — 

A  prosperous  man  among  his  kin, 

In  Stratford,  where  his  bones  repose. 
And  this — what  can  be  less  ? — is  all 

The  world  of  SHAKSPEARE  knows  ! 

It  irks  us  that  we  know  no  more, 

For  where  we  love  we  would  know  all  : 
What  would  be  small,  in  common  men, 
In  great,  is  never  small. 

Their  daily  habits — how  they  looked — 
The  colour  of  their  eyes  and  hair — 
Their  prayers,  their  oaths — the  wine  they  drank- 
The  clothes  they  used  to  wear — 

Trifles  like  these  declare  the  men, 

And  should  survive  them — nay,  they  must : 
We'll  find  them  somewhere — if  it  needs, 
We'll  rake  among  their  dust ! 


STODDARD.  457 

Not  SHAKSPEARE'S  !      He  hath  left  his  curse 

On  him  disturbs  it :   let  it  rest — 
The  sacredest  that  ever  Death 

Laid  in  the  Earth's  dark  breast ! 

Nor  to  himself  did  he  belong, 

Nor  does  his  life  belong  to  us  : 
Enough,  he  was :  give  o'er  the  search 
If  he  were  thus,  or  thus. 

Before  he  came,  his  like  was  not, 

Nor  left  he  heirs  to  share  his  powers ; 
The  Mighty  Mother  sent  him  here, 
To  be  her  Voice — and  ours ! 

To  be  her  Oracle  to  Man ; 

To  be  what  Man  may  be  to  her ; 
Between  the  Maker  and  the  made 
The  best  interpreter. 

The  hearts  of  all  men  beat  in  his, 

Alike  in  pleasure  and  in  pain ; 
And  he  contained  their  myriad  minds — 
Mankind  in  heart  and  brain  ! 

SHAKSPEARE  ! — What  Shapes  are  conjured  up 
By  that  one  word  !     They  come  and  go, 
More  real,  shadows  though  they  be, 
Than  many  a  man  we  know. 

HAMLET  the  Dane — unhappy  Prince, 

Who  most  enjoys  when  suffering  most : 
His  soul  is  haunted  by  itself — 

There  needs  no  other  Ghost ! 


458  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

The  Thane  whose  murderous  fancy  sees 

The  dagger  painted  in  the  air ; 
The  guilty  King  who  stands  appalled 
When  BANQUO  fills  his  chair ! 

LEAR  in  the  tempest,  old  and  crazed — 

"Blow  winds  !  Spit  fire,  singe  my  white  head!" 
Or,  sadder,  watching  for  the  breath 
Of  dear  CORDELIA — dead  ! 

The  much-abused,  relentless  Jew  ; 

Grave  PROSPERO,  in  his  magic  isle  : 
And  she  who  captived  ANTHONY — 
The  Serpent  of  old  Nile  ! 

Imperial  Forms,  heroic  Souls, 

Greek,  Roman, — masters  of  the  world  : — 
Kings,  queens, — the  soldier,  scholar,  priest, — 
The  courtier,  sleek  and  curled ; 

He  knew  and  drew  all  ranks  of  men, 
And  did  such  life  to  them  impart, 
They  grow  not  old — immortal  types, 
The  lords  of  Life  and  Art ! 

Their  sovereign  he,  as  she  was  his, 

The  awful  Mother  of  the  race, 
Who,  hid  from  all  her  children's  eyes, 

Unveiled  to  him  her  face  : 

Spake  to  him  till  her  speech  was  known, 

Through  him,  till  man  had  learned  it — then 
Enthroned  him  in  her  heavenly  house, 
The  most  Supreme  of  Men  ! 

April  23,  1864. 


ALDRICH.  459 

Batleg  3llbricl) 

THE     BALLAD     OF     BABIE     BELL. 
I. 

TTAVE  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 
•*•        How  came  the  dainty  BABIE  BELL 

Into  this  world  of  ours  ? 
The  gates  of  heaven  were  left  ajar : 

With  folded  hands  and  dreamy  eyes, 

Wandering  out  of  Paradise, 
She  saw  this  planet,  like  a  star, 

Hung  in  the  glistening  depths  of  even — 
Its  bridges,  running  to  and  fro, 
O'er  which  the  white-winged  Angels  go, 
Bearing  the  holy  Dead  to  heaven  ! 
She  touched  a  bridge  of  flowers — those  feet, 

So  light  they  did  not  bend  the  bells 

Of  the  celestial  asphodels  ! 

They  fell  like  dew  upon  the  flowers, 
Then  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet ! 
And  thus  came  dainty  BABIE  BELL 

Into  this  world  of  ours. 

n. 

She  came  and  brought  delicious  May. 

The  swallows  built  beneath  the  eaves : 
Like  sunlight  in  and  out  the  leaves, 

The  robins  went,  the  livelong  day ; 

The  lily  swung  its  noiseless  bell, 

And  o'er  the  porch  the  trembling  vine 
Seemed  bursting  with  its  veins  of  wine : 


460  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

How  sweetly,  softly,  twilight  fell ! 
Oh,  earth  was  full  of  singing-birds, 

And  opening  spring-tide  flowers, 
When  the  dainty  BABIE  BELL 

Came  to  this  world  of  ours ! 


O  BABIE,  dainty  BABIE  BELL, 
How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day  ! 

What  woman-nature  filled  her  eyes, 
What  poetry  within  them  lay  ! 
Those  deep  and  tender  twilight  eyes, 

So  full  of  meaning,  pure  and  bright 
As  if  she  yet  stood  in  the  light 
Of  those  oped  gates  of  Paradise  ! 
And  so  we  loved  her  more  and  more  : 
Ah,  never  in  our  hearts  before 
Was  love  so  lovely  born  : 
We  felt  we  had  a  link  between 
This  real  world  and  that  unseen — 
The  land  beyond  the  morn  ! 
And  for  the  love  of  those  dear  eyes, 
For  love  of  her  whom  GOD  led  forth 
(The  mother's  being  ceased  on  earth 
When  BABIE  came  from  Paradise) — 
For  love  of  Him  who  smote  our  lives, 

And  woke  the  chords  of  joy  and  pain, 
We  said,  "Dear  CHRIST  !" — our  hearts  bent  down 
Like  violets  after  rain. 

IV. 

And  now  the  orchards,  which  were  white 
And  red  with  blossoms  when  she  came, 


ALDRIGH.  46] 

Were  rich  in  autumn's  mellow  prime : 
The  clustered  apples  burnt  like  flame, 

The  soft-cheeked  peaches  blushed  and  fell, 

The  ivory  chestnut  burst  its  shell, 

The  grapes  hung  purpling  in  the  grange  : 

And  time  wrought  just  as  rich  a  change 
In  little  BABIE  BELL. 

Her  lissome  form  more  perfect  grew, 

And  in  her  features  we  could  trace, 
In  softened  curves,  her  mother's  face  ! 

Her  angel-nature  ripened  too. 

We  thought  her  lovely  when  she  came, 
But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now .... 
Around  her  pale  angelic  brow 

We  saw  a  slender  ring  of  flame  ! 


GOD'S  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal 

That  held  the  portals  of  her  speech ; 
And  oft  she  said  a  few  strange  words 

Whose  meaning  lay  beyond  our  reach. 
She  never  was  a  child  to  us, 

We  never  held  her  being's  key : 
Wt  could  not  teach  her  holy  things — 

She  was  CHRIST'S  self  in  purity. 

VI. 

It  came  upon  us  by  degrees  : 
We  saw  its  shadow  ere  it  fell, 

The  knowledge  that  our  GOD  had  sent 
His  messenger  for  BABIE  BELL. 
We  shuddered  with  unlanguaged  pain, 


462  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

And  all  our  hopes  were  changed  to  fears, 
And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears 

Like  sunshine  into  rain. 
We  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 

"  Oh,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  GOD  ! 

Teach  us  to  bend  and  kiss  the  rod, 
And  perfect  grow  through  grief." 

Ah,  how  we  loved  her,  GOD  can  tell  j 
Her  heart  was  folded  deep  in  ours ; 

Our  hearts  are  broken,  BABIE  BELL  ! 

VII. 

At  last  he  came,  the  messenger, 

The  messenger  from  unseen  lands : 
And  what  did  dainty  BABIE  BELL  ? 

She  only  crossed  her  little  hands, 
She  only  looked  more  meek  and  fair ! 
We  parted  back  her  silken  hair : 
We  wove  the  roses  round  her  brow, 
White  buds,  the  summer's  drifted  snow — 

Wrapped  her  from  head  to  foot  in  flowers 
And  thus  went  dainty  BABIE  BELL 

Out  of  this  world  of  ours  ! 


A     BALLAD     OF     NANTUCKET. 

£4  "\T7HERE  go  you,  pretty  MAGGIE, 

Where  go  you  in  the  rain  ?" 
"  I  go  to  ask  the  sailors, 

Who  sailed  the  Spanish  main, 


ALDRICH.  463 

"  If  they  have  seen  my  WILLIE, 

If  he'll  come  back  to  me — 
It  is  so  sad  to  have  him 

A-sailing  on  the  sea  !" 

"  O  MAGGIE,  pretty  MAGGIE, 

Turn  back  to  yonder  town ; 
Your  WILLIE'S  in  the  ocean, 

A  hundred  fathoms  down  ! 

"  His  hair  is  turned  to  sea-kelp, 

His  eyes  are  changed  to  stones, 
And  twice  two  years  have  knitted 

The  coral  round  his  bones ! 

"  The  blossoms  and  the  clover 

Shall  bloom  and  bloom  again, 
But  never  shall  your  lover 

Come  o'er  the  Spanish  Main !" 

But  MAGGIE  never  heeded, 

Fox  mournfully  said  she — 
"  It  is  so  sad  to  have  him 

A-sailing  on  the  sea  !" 

She  left  me  in  the  darkness : 

I  heard  the  sea-gulls  screech, 
And  burly  winds  were  growling 

With  breakers  on  the  beach. 

The  bells  of  old  Nantucket, 

What  touching  things  they  said, 

When  MAGGIE  lay  a-sleeping 
With  lilies  round  her  head  ! 


464  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

The  parson  preached  a  sermon, 
And  prayed  and  preached  again — 

But  she  had  gone  to  WILLIE, 
Across  the  Spanish  Main  ! 


KATHIE      MORRIS. 
AN  OLD  MAN'S  POEM. 

I. 
A  H  !   fine  it  was   that  April  time,  when  gentle  winds 

were  blowing, 
To  hunt  for   pale  arbutus-blooms   that   hide  beneath  the 

leaves ; 
To  hear  the  slanting  rain  come  down,  and  see  the  clover 

growing ; 

And  watch  the   airy  swallows  as   they  darted   round  the 
eaves ! 

n. 

You  wonder   why   I   dream   to-night   of  clover   that  was 

growing 

So  many  years  ago,  my  wife,  when  we  were  in  our  prime ; 
For,  hark  !   the  wind  is  in  the  flue,  and  JOHNNY  says  'tis 

snowing, 
And   through    the    storm  the    clanging    bells  ring  in   the 

Christmas  time. 

in. 

[  cannot  tell,  but  something  sweet  about  my  heart  is  cling- 
ing— 

A  vision  and  a  memory — 'tis  little  that  I  mind 
The  weary  wintry  weather,  for  I  hear  the  robins  singing, 
And  the  petals  of  the  apple-blooms  are  ruffled  in  the  wind  -! 


ALDRICH.  465 

IV. 

It  was  a  sunny  morn  in  May,  and  in  the  fragrant  meadow 
I  lay,  and  dreamed  of  one  fair  face,  as  fair  and  fresh  as 

spring : 
Would  KATHIE  MORRIS  love  me  ? — then  in  sunshine  and 

in  shadow 
I  built  up  lofty  castles  on  a  golden  wedding-ring  ! 

v. 

Oh,   sweet  it  was   to   dream    of  her,   the    soldier's   only 

daughter, 

The  pretty  pious  Puritan,  that  flirted  so  with  WILL  ; 
The  music  of  her  winsome  mouth  was  like  the  laughing 

water 
That  broke  in  silvery  syllables  by  Farmer  PHILIP'S  mill. 

VI. 

And  WILL  had  gone  away  to  sea ;  he  did  not  leave  her 

grieving ; 

Her  bonny  heart  was  not  for  him,  so  reckless  and  so  vain ; 
And  WILL  turned  out  a  buccaneer,  and  hanged  was  he  for 

thieving, 
And  scuttling  helpless  ships  that  sailed  across  the  Spanish 

Main. 

VII. 

And   I  had  come   to  grief  for   her,   the  scornful   village 

beauty, 
For,  oh !   she  had  a  witty  tongue,  could  cut  you   like  a 

knife ; 
She  scorned  me  with  her  haughty  eyes,  and  I,  in  bounden 

duty, 
Did  love  her — loved  her  more  for  that,  and  wearied  of  my 

life! 


466  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

VIII. 

And  yet  'twas  sweet  to  dream  of  her,  to  think  her  wavy 

tresses 
Might  rest  some  happy,  happy  day,  like  sunshine,  on  my 

cheek ; 
The  idle  winds  that  fanned  my  brow  I  dreamed  were  her 

caresses, 
And  in  the  robin's  twitterings  I  heard  my  sweetheart  speak. 

IX. 

And  as  I  lay  and  thought  of  her,  her  fairy  face  adorning 
With  lover's  fancies,  treasuring  the  slightest  word  she'd  said, 
'Twas   KATHIE   broke   upon   me  like   a   blushing  summer 

morning, 
And  a  half-blown  rosy  clover  reddened  underneath   her 

tread  ! 

x. 

Then  I  glanced  up  at  KATHIE,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of 
laughter : 

"  O  KATHIE,  KATHIE  MORRIS,  I  am  lying  at  your  feet ; 

Bend  above  me,  say  you  love  me,  that  you'll  love  me  ever 
after, 

Or  let  me  lie  and  die  here,  in  the  fragrant  meadow- 
sweet !" 

XI. 

And  then  I  turned  my  face  away,  and  trembled  at  my 
daring, 

For  wildly,  wildly  had  I  spoke,  with  flashing  cheek  and  eye ; 

And  there  was  silence :  I  looked  up,  all  pallid  and  despair- 
ing, 

For  fear  she'd  take  me  at  my  word,  and  leave  me  there  to 
die. 


ALDRICH.  467 

XII. 

The  modest  lashes  of  her  eyes  upon  her  cheeks  were  droop- 
ing, 

Her  merciless  white  fingers  tore  a  blushing  bud  apart ; 

Then,  quick  as  lightning,  KATHIE  came,  and  kneeling  half 
and  stooping, 

She  hid  her  bonny,  bonny  face  against  my  beating  heart. 

XIII. 

Oh,  nestle,  nestle,  nestle  there !  the  heart  would  give  thee 

greeting; 

Lie  thou  there,  all  trustfully,  in  trouble  and  in  pain ; 
This  breast  shall  shield  thee  from  the  storm,  and  bear  its 

bitter  beating — 
These  arms  shall   hold  thee  tenderly  in  sunshine  and  in 

rain ! 

XIV. 

Old  sexton  !  set  your  chimes  in  tune,  and  let  there  be  no 
snarling ; 

Ring  out  a  joyous  wedding-hymn  to  all  the  listening  air  ! 

And,  girls,  strew  roses  as  she  comes,  the  scornful,  brown- 
eyed  darling — 

A  princess,  by  the  wavy  gold  and  glistening  of  her  hair ! 

xv. 

Hark!    hear  the  bells.     The  Christmas  bells?     Oh,  no; 

who  set  them  ringing  ? 

I  think  I  hear  our  bridal-bells,  and  I  with  joy  am  blind ; 
I  smell  the  clover  in  the  fields,  I  hear  the  robins  singing, 
And  the  petals  of  the  apple-blooms  are  ruffled  in  the 

wind  ! 


468  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

XVI. 

Ah  !  KATHIE,  you've  been  true  to  me  in  fair  and  cloudy 
weather ; 

Our  Father  has  been  good  to  us  when  we've  been  sorely 
tried  : 

I  pray  to  Him,  when  we  must  die,  that  we  may  die  to- 
gether, 

And  slumber  softly  underneath  the  clover,  side  by  side. 


Sanlor. 


BEDOUIN      SONG. 

Tj^ROM  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee 

On  a  stallion  shod  with  fire  ; 
And  the  winds  are  left  behind 
In  the  speed  of  my  desire  ! 
Under  thy  window  I  stand, 

And  the  midnight  hears  my  cry  : 
I  love  thee,  I  love  but  thee, 
With  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 

Look  from  thy  window  and  see 

My  passion  and  my  pain  ; 
I  lie  on  the  sands  below, 

And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain. 


TAYLOR.  469 

Let  the  night-winds  touch  thy  brow 

With  the  heat  of  my  burning  sigh, 
And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 
Of  a  love  that  shall  not  die 

Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 

My  steps  are  nightly  driven, 
By  the  fever  in  my  breast, 
To  hear  from  thy  lattice  breathed 

The  word  that  shall  give  me  rest. 
Open  the  door  of  thy  heart, 

And  open  thy  chamber  door, 
And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 
The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold ! 


THE     ARAB     TO     THE     PALM. 


to  thee,  O  fair  gazelle, 
O  Beddowee  girl,  beloved  so  well; 

Next  to  the  fearless  Nedjidee, 

Whose  fleetness  shall  bear  me  again  to  thee  ; 

Next  to  ye  both  I  love  the  Palm, 

With  his  leaves  of  beauty,  his  fruit  of  balm  ; 
21* 


470  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Next  to  ye  both  I  love  the  Tree 
Whose  fluttering  shadow  wraps  us  three 
With  love,  and  silence,,  and  mystery  ! 

Our  tribe  is  many,  our  poets  vie 

With  any  under  the  Arab  sky ; 

Yet  none  can  sing  of  the  Palm  but  I. 

The  marble  minarets  that  begem 

Cairo's  citadel-diadem 

Are  not  so  light  as  his  slender  stem. 

He  lifts  his  leaves  in  the  sunbeam's  glance 
As  the  Almehs  lift  their  arms  in  dance — 

A  slumberous  motion,  a  passionate  sign, 
That  works  in  the  cells  of  the  blood  like  wine. 

Full  of  passion  and  sorrow  is  he, 
Dreaming  where  the  beloved  may  be. 

And  when  the  warm  south-winds  arise, 
He  breathes  his  longing  in  fervid  sighs — 

Quickening  odours,  kisses  of  balm, 
That  drop  in  the  lap  of  his  chosen  Palm. 

The  sun  may  flame  and  the  sands  may  stir, 
But  the  breath  of  his  passion  reaches  her. 

O  Tree  of  Love,  by  that  love  of  thine, 
Teach  me  how  I  shall  soften  mine  ! 

Give  me  the  secret  of  the  sun, 
Whereby  the  wooed  is  ever  won ! 

If  I  were  a  King,  O  stately  Tree, 

A  likeness,  glorious  as  might  be, 

In  the  court  of  my  palace  Pd  build  for  thee  ! 


TAYLOR.  471 

With  a  shaft  of  silver,  burnished  bright, 
And  leaves  of  beryl  and  malachite : 

With  spikes  of  golden  bloom  a-blaze, 
And  fruits  of  topaz  and  chrysoprase : 

And  there  the  poets,  in  thy  praise, 

Should  night  and  morning  frame  new  lays — 

New  measures  sung  to  tunes  divine ; 
But  none,  O  Palm,  should  equal  mine  ! 


KUBLEH ; 
A    STORY    OF    THE    ASSYRIAN    DESERT. 

*T*HE  black-eyed  children  of  the  Desert  drove 

•*•     Their  flocks  together  at  the  set  of  sun. 
The  tents  were  pitched ;  the  weary  camels  bent 
Their  suppliant  necks,  and  knelt  upon  the  sand ; 
The  hunters  quartered  by  the  kindled  fires ; 
The  wild  boars  of  the  Tigris  they  had  slain, 
And  all  the  stir  and  sound  of  evening  ran 
Throughout  the  Shammar  camp.     The  dewy  air 
Bore  its  full  burden  of  confused  delight 
Across  the  flowery  plain ;  and  while  afar, 
The  snows  of  Koordish  mountains  in  the  ray 
Flashed  roseate  amber,  Nimroud's  ancient  mound 
Rose  broad  and  black  against  the  burning  West. 
The  shadows  deepened  and  the  stars  came  out, 
Sparkling  in  violet  ether ;  one  by  one 
Glimmered  the  ruddy  camp-fires  on  the  plain, 
And  shapes  of  steed  and  horseman  moved  among 


472  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

The  dusky  tents  with  shout  and  jostling  cry, 

And  neigh  and  restless  prancing.      Children  ran 

To  hold  the  thongs  while  every  rider  drove 

His  quivering  spear  in  the  earth,  and  by  his  door 

Tethered  the  horse  he  loved.      In  midst  of  all 

Stood  Shammeriyah,  whom  they  dared  not  touch, — 

The  foal  of  wondrous  Kubleh,  to  the  Sheik 

A  dearer  wealth  than  all  his  Georgian  girls. 

But  when  their  meal  was  o'er, — when  the  red  fires 

Blazed  brighter,  and  the  dogs  no  longer  bayed, — 

When  Shammar  hunters  with  the  boys  sat  down 

To  cleanse  their  bloody  knives,  came  ALIMAR, 

The  poet  of  the  tribe,  whose  songs  of  love 

Are  sweeter  than  Bassora's  nightingales, — 

Whose  songs  of  war  can  fire  the  Arab  blood 

Like  war  itself:   who  knows  not  ALIMAR  ? 

Then  asked  the  men — "  O  poet,  sing  of  Kubleh !" 

And  boys  laid  down  the  knives  half  burnished,  saying, 

"  Tell  us  of  Kubleh,  whom  we  never  saw — 

Of  wondrous  Kubleh  !"     Closer  flocked  the  group 

With  eager  eyes  about  the  flickering  fire, 

While  ALIMAR,  beneath  the  Assyrian  stars, 

Sang  to  the  listening  Arabs : 

"  GOD  is  great ! 

O  Arabs,  never  yet  since  MAHMOUD  rode 
The  sands  of  Yemen,  and  by  Mecca's  gate 
The  winged  steed  bestrode,  whose  mane  of  fire 
Blazed  up  the  zenith,  when,  by  ALLAH  called, 
He  bore  the  Prophet  to  the  walls  of  heaven, 
Was  like  to  Kubleh,  SOFUK'S  wondrous  mare : 
Not  all  the  milk-white  barbs,  whose  hoofs  dashed  flame 
In  Bagdad's  stables,  from  the  marble  floor — 


TAYLOR.  473 

Who,  swathed  in  purple  housings,  pranced  in  state 
The  gay  bazaars,  by  great  AL-RASCHID  backed  : 
Not  the  wild  charger  of  Mongolian  breed 
That  went  o'er  half  the  world  with  TAMERLANE  : 
Nor  yet  those  flying  coursers  long  ago 
From  Ormuz  brought  by  swarthy  Indian  grooms 
To  Persia's  kings — the  foals  of  sacred  mares, 
Sired  by  the  fiery  stallions  of  the  sea  ! 

"  Who  ever  told,  in  all  the  Desert  Land, 
The  many  deeds  of  Kubleh  ?     Who  can  tell 
Whence  came  she,  whence  her  like  shall  come  again  ? 
O  Arabs,  like  a  tale  of  SCHEREZADE 
Heard  in  the  camp,  when  javelin-shafts  are  tried 
On  the  hot  eve  of  battle,  is  her  story. 

"  Far  in  the  Southern  sands,  the  hunters  say, 
Did  SOFUK  find  her,  by  a  lonely  palm. 
The  well  had  dried ;  her  fierce,  impatient  eye 
Glared  red  and  sunken,  and  her  slight  young  limbs 
Were  lean  with  thirst.      He  checked  his  camel's  pace, 
And,  while  it  knelt,  untied  the  water-skin, 
And  when  the  wild  mare  drank,  she  followed  him. 
Thence  none  but  SOFUK  might  the  saddle  gird 
Upon  her  back,  or  clasp  the  brazen  gear 
About  her  shining  head,  that  brooked  no  curb 
From  even  him ;  for  she,  alike,  was  royal. 

"  Her  form  was  lighter,  in  its  shifting  grace, 
Than  some  impassioned  Almee's,  when  the  dance 
Unbinds  her  scarf,  and  golden  anklets  gleam 
Through  floating  drapery,  on  the  buoyant  air. 
Her  light,  free  head  was  ever  held  aloft ; 
Between  her  slender  and  transparent  ears 
The  silken  forelock  tossed ;  her  nostril's  arch, 


474  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Thin-drawn,  in  proud  and  pliant  beauty  spread, 
Snuffing  the  desert  winds.      Her  glossy  neck 
Curved  to  the  shoulder  like  an  eagle's  wing, 
And  all  her  matchless  lines  of  flank  and  limb 
Seemed  fashioned  from  the  flying  shapes  of  air 
By  hands  of  lightning.      When  the  war-shouts  rang 
From  tent  to  tent,  her  keen  and  restless  eye 
Shone  like  a  blood-red  ruby,  and  her  neigh 
Rang  wild  and  sharp  above  the  clash  of  spears. 

"  The  tribes  of  Tigris  and  the  Desert  knew  her : 
SOFUK  before  the  Shammar  bands  she  bore 
To  meet  the  dread  Jebours,  who  waited  not 
To  bid  her  welcome ;  and  the  savage  Koord, 
Chased  from  his  bold  irruption  on  the  plain, 
Has  seen  her  hoof-prints  in  his  mountain  snow. 
Lithe  as  the  dark-eyed  Syrian  gazelle, 
O'er  ledge  and  chasm  and  barren  steep,  amid 
The  Sindjar  hills,  she  ran  the  wild  ass  down. 
Through  many  a  battle's  thickest  brunt  she  stormed, 
Reeking  with  sweat  and  dust,  and  fetlock-deep 
In  curdling  gore.      When  hot  and  lurid  haze 
Stifled  the  crimson  sun,  she  swept  before 
The  whirling  sand-spout,  till  her  gusty  mane 
Flared  in  its  vortex,  while  the  camels  lay 
Groaning  and  helpless  on  the  fiery  waste. 

"  The  tribes  of  Taurus  and  the  Caspian  knew  her 
The  Georgian  chiefs  have  heard  her  trumpet-neigh 
Before  the  walls  of  Teflis.      Pines  that  grow 
On  ancient  Caucasus  have  harboured  her, 
Sleeping  by  SOFUK  in  their  spicy  gloom. 
The  surf  of  Trebizond  has  bathed  her  flanks, 
When  from  the  shore  she  saw  the  white-sailed  bark 


TAYLOR.  475 

That  brought  him  home  from  Stamboul.     Never  yet, 
O  Arabs,  never  yet  was  like  to  Kubleh  ! 

"  And  SOFUK  loved  her.     She  was  more  to  him 
Than  all  his  snowy-bosomed  odalisques. 
For  many  years,  beside  his  tent  she  stood, 
The  glory  of  the  tribe. 

"At  last  she  died: 

Died,  while  the  fire  was  yet  in  all  her  limbs — 
Died  for  the  life  of  SOFUK,  whom  she  loved. 
The  base  Jebours — on  whom  be  ALLAH'S  curse ! — 
Came  on  his  path,  when  far  from  any  camp, 
And  would  have  slain  him,  but  that  Kubleh  sprang 
Against  the  javelin-points  and  bore  them  down, 
And  gained  the  open  desert.      Wounded  sore, 
She  urged  her  light  limbs  into  maddening  speed, 
And  made  the  wind  a  laggard.      On  and  on 
The  red  sand  slid  beneath  her,  and  behind 
Whirled  in  a  swift  and  cloudy  turbulence, 
As  when  some  star  of  Eblis,  downward  hurled 
By  ALLAH'S  bolt,  sweeps  with  his  burning  hair 
The  waste  of  darkness.      On  and  on,  the  bleak, 
Bare  ridges  rose  before  her,  came  and  passed ; 
And  every  flying  leap  with  fresher  blood 
Her  nostril  stained,  till  SOFUK'S  brow  and  breast 
Were  flecked  with  crimson  foam.    He  would  have  turned 
To  save  his  treasure,  though  himself  were  lost, 
But  Kubleh  fiercely  snapped  the  brazen  rein. 
At  last,  when  through  her  spent  and  quivering  frame 
The  sharp  throes  ran,  our  distant  tents  arose, 
And  with  a  neigh,  whose  shrill  excess  of  joy 
O'ercame  its  agony,  she  stopped  and  fell. 
The  Shammar  men  came  round  her  as  she  lay, 


476  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

And  SOFUK  raised  her  head  and  held  it  close 
Against  his  breast.  Her  dull  and  glazing  eye 
Met  his,  and  with  a  shuddering  gasp  she  died. 
Then  like  a  child  his  bursting  grief  made  way 
In  passionate  tears,  and  with  him  all  the  tribe 
Wept  for  the  faithful  mare. 

"  They  dug  her  grave 
Amid  Al-Hather's  marbles,  where  she  lies 
Buried  with  ancient  kings ;  and  since  that  time 
Was  never  seen,  and  will  not  be  again, 
O  Arabs,  though  the  world  be  doomed  to  live 
As  many  moons  as  count  the  desert  sands, 
The  like  of  wondrous  Kubleh.      GOD  is  great !' 


"MOAN,   YE    WILD   WINDS." 

IV  TO  AN,  ye  wild  winds  !  around  the  pane, 
•*•**•   And  fall,  thou  drear  December  rain  ! 
Fill  with  your  gusts  the  sullen  day, 
Tear  the  last  clinging  leaves  away  ! 
Reckless  as  yonder  naked  tree, 
No  blast  of  yours  can  trouble  me. 

Give  me  your  chill  and  wild  embrace, 
And  pour  your  baptism  on  my  face ; 
Sound  in  mine  ears  the  airy  moan 
That  sweeps  in  desolate  monotone, 
Where  on  the  unsheltered  hill-top  beat 
The  marches  of  your  homeless  feet ! 

Moan  on,  ye  winds !  and  pour,  thou  rain  ! 
Your  stormy  sobs  and  tears  are  vain, 


TAYLOR.  477 

If  shed  for  her,  whose  fading  eyes 
Will  open  soon  on  Paradise  : 
The  eye  of  Heaven  shall  blinded  be, 
Or  ere  ye  cease,  if  shed  for  me. 


THE     BISON-TRACK. 

OTRIKE  the  tent !    the  sun  has  risen ;   not  a  cloud  has 

^         ribbed  the  dawn, 

And  the  frosted  prairie  brightens  to  the  westward,  far  and 
wan: 

Prime  afresh  the  trusty  rifle, — sharpen  well  the  hunting- 
spear,— 

For  the  frozen  sod  is  trembling,  and  a  noise  of  hoofs  I 
hear ! 

Fiercely  stamp  the  tethered  horses  as  they  snuff  the  morn- 
ing's fire, 

And  their  flashing  heads  are  tossing,  with  a  neigh  of  keen 
desire ; 

Strike  the  tent, — the  saddles  wait  us !  let  the  bridle-reins 
be  slack, 

For  the  prairie's  distant  thunder  has  betrayed  the  bison's 
track  ! 

See !  a  dusky  line  approaches ;  hark  !    the  onward-surging 

roar, 
Like  the  din  of  wintry  breakers  on   a  sounding  wall   of 

shore  ! 
Dust  and  sand  behind  them  whirling,  snort  the  foremost 

of  the  van, 
And  the  stubborn  horns  are  striking  through  the  crowded 

caravan. 


478  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Now  the  storm  is  down  upon  us, — let  the  maddened  horses 
go! 

We  shall  ride  the  living  whirlwind,  though  a  hundred 
leagues  it  blow  ! 

Though  the  surgy  manes  should  thicken,  and  the  red  eyes' 
angry  glare 

Lighten  round  us  as  we  gallop  through  the  sand  and  rush- 
ing air ! 

Myriad  hoofs  will  scar  the  prairie,  in  our  wild,  resistless 

race, 
And  a  sound,  like  mighty  waters,  thunder  down  the  desert 

space : 
Yet  the  rein  may  not  be  tightened,  nor  the  riders  eye  look 

back, — 
Death  to  him  whose  speed  should  slacken,  on  the  maddened 

bison's  track  ! 

Now  the  trampling  herds  are  threaded,  and  the  chase  is 

close  and  warm 

For  the  giant  bull  that  gallops  in  the  edges  of  the  storm : 
Hurl  your  lassoes  swift  and  fearless,  swing  your  rifles  as  we 

run  ! 
Ha  !  the  dust  is  red  behind  him  :  shout,  my  brothers,  he 

is  won  ! 

Look  not  on  him  as  he  staggers, — 'tis  the  last  shot  he  will 
need; 

More  shall  fall,  among  his  fellows,  ere  we  run  the  bold 
stampede, — 

Ere  we  stem  the  swarthy  breakers, — while  the  wolves,  a 
hungry  pack, 

Howl  around  each  grim-eyed  carcass,  on  the  bloody  bison- 
track  ! 


LUCRETIA    M.    DAVIDSON.  479 


Cucrttta  ill. 

A     PROPHECY. 

T    ET  me  gaze  awhile  on  that  marble  brow, 

•*—  '  On  that  full,  dark  eye,  on  that  cheek's  warm  glow 

Let  me  gaze  for  a  moment,  that,  ere  I  die, 

I  may  read  thee,  maiden,  a  prophecy. 

That  brow  may  beam  in  glory  awhile  ; 

That  cheek  may  bloom,  and  that  lip  may  smile  ; 

That  full,  dark  eye  may  brightly  beam 

In  Life's  gay  morn,  in  Hope's  young  dream  ; 

But  clouds  shall  darken  that  brow  of  snow, 

And  sorrow  blight  thy  bosom's  glow. 

I  know  by  that  spirit  so  haughty  and  high, 

I  know  by  that  brightly  flashing  eye, 

That,  maiden,  there's  that  within  thy  breast 

Which  hath  marked  thee  out  for  a  soul  unblessed  : 

The  strife  of  love  with  pride  shall  wring 

Thy  youthful  bosom's  tenderest  string  ; 

And  the  cup  of  sorrow,  mingled  for  thee, 

Shall  be  drained  to  the  dregs  in  agony. 

Yes,  maiden,  yes,  I  read  in  thine  eye 

A  dark  and  a  doubtful  prophecy  : 

Thou  shalt  love,  and  that  love  shall  be  thy  curse  ; 

Thou  wilt  need  no  heavier,  thou  shalt  feel  no  worse. 

I  see  the  cloud  and  the  tempest  near  ; 

The  voice  of  the  troubled  tide  I  hear  ; 

The  torrent  of  sorrow,  the  sea  of  griefj 

The  rushing  waves  of  a  wretched  life  : 

Thy  bosom's  bark  on  the  surge  I  see, 

And,  maiden,  thy  loved  one  is  there  with  thee. 


480  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Not  a  star  in  the  heavens,  not  a  light  on  the  wave  : 
Maiden,  Pve  gazed  on  thine  early  grave. 
When  I  am  cold,  and  the  hand  of  Death 
Hath  crowned  my  brow  with  an  icy  wreath ; 
When  the  dew  hangs  damp  on  this  motionless  lip ; 
When  this  eye  is  closed  in  its  long,  last  sleep — 
Then,  maiden,  pause,  when  thy  heart  beats  high, 
And  think  on  my  last  sad  prophecy. 


AUCTION     EXTRAORDINARY. 

T  DREAMED  a  dream  in  the  midst  of  my  slumbers, 
And  as  fast  as  I  dreamed  it,  it  came  into  numbers ; 
My  thoughts  ran  along  in  such  beautiful  metre, 
I'm  sure  I  ne'er  saw  any  poetry  sweeter : 
It  seemed  that  a  law  had  been  recently  made, 
That  a  tax  on  old  bachelors'  pates  should  be  laid ; 
And  in  order  to  make  them  all  willing  to  marry, 
The  tax  was  as  large  as  a  man  could  well  carry. 
The  bachelors  grumbled,  and  said  'twas  no  use — 
'Twas  horrid  injustice  and  horrid  abuse, 
And  declared  that  to  save  their  own  hearts'  blood  from 

spilling, 

Of  such  a  vile  tax  they  would  not  pay  a  shilling. 
But  the  rulers  determined  them  still  to  pursue, 
So  they  set  all  the  old  bachelors  up  at  vendue : 
A  crier  was  sent  through  the  town  to  and  fro, 
To  rattle  his  bell,  and  his  trumpet  to  blow, 
And  to  call  out  to  all  he  might  meet  in  his  way, 
"  Ho  !  forty  old  bachelors  sold  here  to-day  :" 


MARGARET  M.  DAVID  SON.  48 

And  presently  all  the  old  maids  in  the  town, 

Each  in  her  very  best  bonnet  and  gown, 

From  thirty  to  sixty,  fair,  plain,  red,  and  pale, 

Of  every  description,  all  flocked  to  the  sale. 

The  auctioneer  then  in  his  labor  began, 

And  called  out  aloud,  as  he  held  up  a  man, 

"  How  much  for  a  bachelor  ?  who  wants  to  buy  ?" 

In  a  twink,  every  maiden  responded,  "  I, — I." 

In  short,  at  a  highly  extravagant  price, 

The  bachelors  all  were  sold  off  in  a  trice : 

And  forty  old  maidens,  some  younger,  some  older, 

Each  lugged  an  old  bachelor  home  on  her  shoulder. 


fHargavet  HI.  E)atrib0cm. 

TO     HER     SISTER     LUCRETIA. 

,  thou,  so  early  lost,  so  long  deplored  ! 
Pure  spirit  of  my  sister,  be  thou  near  ! 
And  while  I  touch  this  hallowed  harp  of  thine, 
Bend  from  the  skies,  sweet  sister,  bend  and  hear. 

For  thee  I  pour  this  unaffected  lay ; 

To  thee  these  simple  numbers  all  belong : 
For  though  thine  earthly  form  has  passed  away, 

Thy  memory  still  inspires  my  childish  song. 

Take,  then,  this  feeble  tribute — 'tis  thine  own — 
Thy  fingers  sweep  my  trembling  heart-strings  o'er, 

Arouse  to  harmony  each  buried  tone, 

And  bid  its  wakened  music  sleep  no  more  ! 


482  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Long  has  thy  voice  been  silent,  and  thy  lyre 
Hung  o'er  thy  grave,  in  death's  unbroken  rest ; 

But  when  its  last  sweet  tones  were  borne  away, 
One  answering  echo  lingered  in  my  breast. 

Oh,  thou  pure  spirit !  if  thou  hoverest  near, 
Accept  these  lines,  unworthy  though  they  be, 

Faint  echoes  from  thy  fount  of  song  divine, 
By  thee  inspired,  and  dedicate  to  thee  ! 


TO     HER     MOTHER. 
WRITTEN    A    FEW    DAYS    BEFORE    HER    DEATH. 

MOTHER,  would  the  power  were  mine 
To  wake  the  strain  thou  lov'st  to  hear, 
And  breathe  each  trembling  new-born  thought 

Within  thy  fondly-listening  ear, 
As  when,  in  days  of  health  and  glee, 
My  hopes  and  fancies  wandered  free. 

But,  mother,  now  a  shade  hath  passed 
Athwart  my  brightest  visions  here ;  * 

A  cloud  of  darkest  gloom  hath  wrapped 
The  remnant  of  my  brief  career : 

No  song,  no  echo  can  I  win, 

The  sparkling  fount  hath  dried  within. 

The  torch  of  earthly  hope  burns  dim, 
And  Fancy  spreads  her  wings  no  more, 

And  oh,  how  vain  and  trivial  seem 
The  pleasures  that  I  prized  before ! 


BUTLER.  483 

My  soul,  with  trembling  steps  and  slow, 
Is  struggling  on  through  doubt  and  strife ; 

Oh,  may  it  prove,  as  time  rolls  on, 
The  pathway  to  eternal  life  ! 

Then,  when  my  cares  and  fears  are  o'er, 

I'll  sing  thee  as  in  "days  of  yore." 

I  said  that  hope  had  passed  from  earth — 
'Twas  but  to  fold  her  wings  in  heaven, 

To  whisper  of  the  soul's  new  birth, 
Of  sinners  saved  and  sins  forgiven : 

When  mine  are  washed  in  tears  away, 

Then  shall  my  spirit  swell  the  lay. 

When  GOD  shall  guide  my  soul  above, 
By  the  soft  chords  of  heavenly  love — 
When  the  vain  cares  of  earth  depart, 
And  tuneful  voices  swell  my  heart, 
Then  shall  each  word,  each  note  I  raise, 
Burst  forth  in  pealing  hymns  of  praise : 
And  all  not  offered  at  His  shrine, 
Dear  mother,  I  will  place  on  thine. 


iUilltam  2lllen  Butler. 


THE     NEW     ARGONAUTS. 

'T^O-DAY  the  good  ship  sails 
•*•     Across  the  sparkling  sea  — 
To-day  the  northern  gales 
Are  blowing  swift  and  free  ; 


484  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Speed,  speed  her  distant  way, 

To  that  far  land  of  gold ; 
A  richer  prize  we  seek  than  they, 

The  Argonauts  of  old  ! 

Who  goes  with  us  ?  who  quits  the  tiresome  shore, 

And  sails  where  Fortune  beckons  him  away ; 
Where  in  that  marvellous  land,  in  virgin  ore, 

The  wealth  of  years  is  gathered  in  a  day  ? 
Here,  toil  and  trouble  are  our  portion  still, 

And  still  with  want  our  weary  work  is  paid ; 
Slowly  the  shillings  drop  into  the  till, 

Small  are  the  profits  of  our  tedious  trade  : 
There,  Nature  proffers  with  unstinted  hands 

The  countless  wealth  the  wide  domain  confines, 
Sprinkles  the  mountain-streams  with  golden  sands, 

And  calls  the  adventurer  to  exhaustless  mines. 
Come,  then,  with  us  !  what  are  the  charms  of  home, 

What  are  the  ties  of  friends  or  kindred  worth  ? 
Thither,  oh,  thither,  let  our  footsteps  roam — 

There  is  the  Eden  of  our  fallen  earth  ! 

Well  do  we  hold  the  fee  of  those  broad  lands 
Wrested  from  feebler  hands, 

By  our  own  sword  and  spear ; 
Well  may  the  weeping  widow  be  consoled, 
And  orphaned  hearts  their  ceaseless  grief  withhold ; 

Well  have  our  brothers  shed  their  life-blood  here. 

Say,  could  we  purchase  at  a  price  too  dear 
These  boundless  acres  of  uncounted  gold  ? 

Come,  then  !   it  is  to-day, 
To-day  the  good  ship  sails, 


BUTLER.  485 

And  swift  upon  her  way 

Blow  out  the  northern  gales. 
A  twelvemonth  more,  and  we 

Our  homeward  course  shall  hold, 
With  richer  freight  within  than  theirs, 

The  Argonauts  of  old  ! 

Alas  for  honest  labour  from  honest  ends  averted ! 
Alas  for  firesides  left,  and  happy  homes  deserted ! 
Brightly  the  bubble  glitters ;  bright  in  the  distance 

The  land  of  promise  gleams ; 
But  ah,  the  phantom  fortunes  of  existence 

Live  but  in  dreams  ! 
Behold  the  end  afar  : 

Beyond  the  bright,  deceptive  cloud, 
Beneath  what  dim,  malignant  star, 

Sails  on  the  eager  crowd ! 
Some  in  mid-ocean  lie — 

Some  gain  the  wished-for  shore, 
And  grasp  the  golden  ore, 

But  sicken  as  they  grasp,  and  where  they  sicken,  die ! 
There  have  they  found,  beside  the  mountain-streams, 
On  desolate  crags  where  the  wild  eagle  screams, 
In  dark  ravines  where  Western  forests  wave — 
Gold,  and  a  grave  ! 

Some  for  the  spendthrift's  eager  touch, 

Some  for  the  miser's  hoarded  store, 
Some  for  the  robber's  grasp,  the  murderer's  clutch, 

Heap  up  the  precious  ore, 

Dear  bought  with  life's  lost  strength,  and  the  heart's  with- 
ered core ! 


486  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Oh,  cursed  love  of  gold  ! 

Age  follows  age, 
And  still  the  world's  slow  records  are  unrolled, 

Page  after  page ; 
And  the  same  tale  is  told — 

The  same  unholy  deeds,  the  same  sad  scenes  unfold  ! 
Where  the  assassin's  knife  is  sharpened, 

In  the  dark ; 
Where  lies  the  murdered  man  in  the  midnight, 

Cold  and  stark ; 
Where  the  slave  groans  and  quivers  under 

The  driver's  lash  ; 
Where  the  keen-eyed  son  of  trade  is  bartering 

Honour  for  cash  ; 
Where  the  sons  wish  the  fathers  dead,  of  their  wealth 

To  be  partakers ; 
Where  the  maiden  of  sixteen  weds  the  old  man 

For  his  acres ; 
Where  the  gambler  stakes  his  all  on  the  last  throw 

Of  the  dice ; 
Where  the  statesman  for  his  country  and  its  glory 

Sets  a  price  ! 

There  are  thy  altars  reared,  thy  trophies  told — 
Oh,  cursed  love  of  gold  ! 


CHARLEMAGNE   AND  THE  HERMIT. 

/CHARLEMAGNE,  the  mighty  monarch, 
^""^    As  through  Metten  Wood  he  strayed, 
Found  the  holy  hermit  HUTTO, 
Toiling  in  the  forest  glade. 


BUTLER.  487 

In  his  hand  the  woodman's  hatchet, 

By  his  side  the  knife  and  twine, 
There  he  cut  and  bound  the  fagots 

From  the  gnarled  and  stunted  pine. 

Well  the  monarch  knew  the  hermit, 

For  his  pious  works  and  cares, 
And  the  wonders  which  had  followed 

On  his  vigils,  fasts,  and  prayers. 

Much  he  marvelled  now  to  see  him 

Toiling  there,  with  axe  and  cord, 
And  he  cried  in  scorn,  "  O  Father ! 

Is  it  thus  you  serve  the  LORD  ?" 

But  the  hermit,  resting  neither 

Hand  nor  hatchet,  meekly  said — 
"  He  who  does  no  daily  labour 

May  not  ask  for  daily  bread. 

"  Think  not  that  my  graces  slumber 

While  I  toil  throughout  the  day, 
For  all  honest  work  is  worship, 

And  to  labour  is  to  pray. 

"  Think  not  that  the  heavenly  blessing 
From  the  workman's  hand  removes ; 

Who  does  best  his  task  appointed, 
Him  the  Master  most  approves." 

While  he  spoke,  the  hermit,  pausing 

For  a  moment,  raised  his  eyes 
Where  the  overhanging  branches 

Swayed  beneath  the  sunset  skies. 


488  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Through  the  dense  and  vaulted  forest 
Straight  the  level  sunbeam  came, 

Shining  like  a  golden  rafter 

Poised  upon  a  sculptured  frame. 

Suddenly,  with  kindling  features, 
While  he  breathes  a  silent  prayer, 

See,  the  hermit  throws  his  hatchet 
Lightly  upward  in  the  air. 

Bright  the  well-worn  steel  is  gleaming 
As  it  flashes  through  the  shade, 

And,  descending,  lo  !  the  sunbeam 
Holds  it  dangling  by  the  blade ! 

"  See,  my  son,"  exclaimed  the  hermit, 
"  See  the  token  sent  from  heaven  ! 

Thus  to  humble,  patient  effort, 
Faith's  miraculous  aid  is  given. 

"  Toiling,  hoping,  often  fainting, 

As  we  labour,  Love  divine 
Through  the  shadows  pours  its  sunlight, 

Crowns  the  work — vouchsafes  the  sign." 

Homeward  slowly  went  the  monarch, 
Till  he  reached  his  palace  hall, 

Where  he  strode  among  his  warriors, 
He  the  bravest  of  them  all. 

Soon  the  Benedictine  Abbey 
Rose  beside  the  hermit's  cell ; 

He,  by  royal  hands  invested, 
Ruled  as  Abbot  long  and  well. 


WINTER.  489 


Now,  beside  the  rushing  Danube, 
Still  its  ruined  walls  remain, 

Telling  of  the  hermit's  patience, 
And  the  zeal  of  CHARLEMAGNE. 


IDUltam  tDinter. 

ORGIA. 

'ITTHO  cares  for  nothing,  alone  is  free — 

(Sit  down,  good  fellow,  and  drink  with  me). 

With  a  careless  heart  and  a  merry  eye, 

He  will  laugh  at  the  world  as  the  world  goes  by. 

He  laughs  at  power,  and  wealth,  and  fame : 
He  laughs  at  virtue — he  laughs  at  shame. 

He  laughs  at  hope,  and  he  laughs  at  fear ; 
At  Memory's  dead  leaves,  crisp  and  sere. 

He  laughs  at  the  future,  cold  and  dim — 
Nor  earth  nor  heaven  is  dear  to  him. 

Oh,  that  is  the  comrade  fit  for  me  ! 
He  cares  for  nothing — his  soul  is  free  ! 

Free  as  the  soul  of  the  fragrant  wine ; 
Sit  down,  good  fellow,  my  heart  is  thine. 

For  I  heed  not  custom,  creed,  nor  law : 
I  care  for  nothing  that  ever  I  saw. 

In  every  city  my  cups  I  quaff; 

And  over  my  liquor  I  riot  and  laugh. 


49°  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

I  laugh  like  the  cruel  and  turbulent  wave, 

I  laugh  in  the  church  and  I  laugh  at  the  grave. 

I  laugh  at  joy,  and  well  I  know 
That  I  merrily,  merrily  laugh  at  woe. 

I  terribly  laugh,  with  an  oath  and  a  sneer, 
When  I  think  that  the  hour  of  death  is  near. 

For  I  know  that  Death  is  a  guest  divine, 
Who  shall  drink  my  blood  as  I  drink  this  wine. 

And  he  cares  for  nothing  !  a  king  is  he  ! 
Come  on,  old  fellow,  and  drink  with  me  ! 

With  you  I  will  drink  to  the  solemn  Past, 
Though  the  cup  that  I  drain  should  be  my  last. 

I  will  drink  to  the  phantoms  of  Love  and  Truth ; 
To  ruined  manhood  and  wasted  youth. 

I  will  drink  to  the  woman  who  wrought  my  woe 
In  the  diamond  morning  of  long  ago. 

To  a  heavenly  face  in  sweet  repose  ! 

To  the  lily's  snow  and  the  blood  of  the  rose  ! 

To  the  splendour  caught  from  Orient  skies, 
That  thrilled  in  the  dark  of  her  hazel  eyes ; 

Her  large  eyes,  wild  with  the  fire  of  the  South ; 
And  the  dewy  wine  of  her  warm,  red  mouth  ! 

I  will  drink  to  the  shadow  of  coming  doom  ! 
To  the  phantoms  that  wait  in  my  lonely  tomb  ! 

I  will  drink  to  my  soul,  in  its  terrible  mood, 
Dimly  and  solemnly  understood. 


WINTER.  491 

And,  last  of  all,  to  the  Monarch  of  Sin, 

Who  has  conquered  that  palace  and  reigns  within  ! 

My  song  is  passing ;  it  dies  away  ; 
I  cannot  tell  is  it  night  or  day.  .  .  . 

My  heart  is  burnt  and  blackened  with  pain, 
And  a  horrible  darkness  crushes  my  brain.  .  .  . 

I  cannot  see  you — the  end  is  nigh — 
But  we'll  laugh  together  before  I  die  ! 

Through  awful  chasms  I  plunge  and  fall : 
Your  hand,  good  fellow  ! — I  die — that's  all ! 


BESIDE     THE     SEA. 


walked  beside  the  Summer  sea, 
And  watched  the  slowly  dying  sun ; 
fs  And  oh,"  she  said,  fe  come  back  to  me, 

My  love,  my  dear,  my  only  one  !" 
But  while  he  kissed  her  fears  away, 

The  gentle  waters  kissed  the  shore, 
And,  sadly  whispering,  seemed  to  say, 

"  He'll  come  no  more  !  he'll  come  no  more  !" 

n. 

Alone  beside  the  Autumn  sea 

She  watched  the  sombre  death  of  day ; 
"  And  oh,"  she  said,  "  remember  me 

And  love  me,  darling,  far  away  !" 


492  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

A  cold  wind  swept  the  watery  gloom, 
And,  darkly  whispering  on  the  shore, 

Sighed  out  the  secret  of  his  doom, — 

"  He'll  come  no  more  !  he'll  come  no  more  !" 

in. 

In  peace  beside  the  Winter  sea 

A  white  grave  glimmers  in  the  moon ; 
And  waves  are  fresh,  and  clouds  are  free, 

And  shrill  winds  pipe  a  careless  tune. 
One  sleeps  beneath  the  dark  blue  wave, 

And  one  upon  the  lonely  shore ; 
But  joined,  in  love,  beyond  the  grave, 

They  part  no  more  !  they  part  no  more  ! 


AFTER     ALL. 

E  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard, 
The  work  of  the  reaper  is  done, 
And  the  golden  woodlands  redden 
In  the  blood  of  the  dying  sun. 

At  the  cottage  door  the  grandsire 
Sits,  pale,  in  his  easy-chair, 

While  the  gentle  wind  of  twilight 
Plays  with  his  silver  hair. 

A  woman  is  kneeling  beside  him, — 
A  fair  young  form  is  pressed, 

In  the  first  wild  passion  of  sorrow, 
Against  his  aged  breast. 


COOKE.  493 

And,  far  from  over  the  distance, 

The  faltering  echoes  come 
Of  the  flying  blast  of  trumpet 

And  the  rattling  roll  of  drum. 

Then  the  grandsire  speaks,  in  a  whisper — 

"  The  end  no  man  can  see ; 
But  we  give  him  to  his  country, 

And  we  give  our  prayers  to  Thee.".  .  .  . 

The  violets  star  the  meadows, 

The  rose-buds  fringe  the  door, 
And  over  the  grassy  orchard 

The  pink-white  blossoms  pour. 

But  the  grandsire's  chair  is  empty, 

The  cottage  is  dark  and  still ; 
There's  a  nameless  grave  on  the  battle-field, 

And  a  new  one  under  the  hill. 

And  a  pallid,  tearless  woman 

By  the  cold  hearth  sits  alone, 
And  the  old  clock  in  the  corner 

Ticks  on  with  a  steady  drone. 


(Eooke. 

MAY. 

T  TAS  the  old  glory  passed 
From  tender  May — 
That  never  the  echoing  blast 
Of  bugle-horns  merry,  and  fast 


494  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Dying  away  like  the  past, 
Welcomes  the  day  ? 

Has  the  old  Beauty  gone 

From  golden  May — 
That  not  any  more  at  dawn 
Over  the  flowery  lawn, 
Or  knolls  of  the  forest  withdrawn, 
Maids  are  at  play  ? 

Is  the  old  freshness  dead 
Of  the  fairy  May  ? — 

Ah  !   the  sad  tear-drops  unshed  ! 

Ah  !  the  young  maidens  unwed  ! 

Golden  locks — cheeks  rosy  red — 
Ah  !  where  are  they  ? 


EXTRACTS     FROM     "STANZAS." 
I. 

T^OR  long  I  thought  the  dreadful  day 

Which  robbed  me  of  my  joy  and  peace, 
Had  palsied  me  with  such  disease 
As  never  more  could  pass  away. 

But  Nature  whispered,  low  and  sweet : 

"  O  Heart !  struck  down  with  deep  despair, 
The  goal  is  near — these  trials  are 

But  beckonings  to  the  SAVIOUR'S  feet." 

And  then,  "  Even  put  your  grief  in  words ; 
The  soul  expends  itself,  as  tears 
Flow  after  storms ;  the  hopes  of  years 

Rise  stronger  than  the  binding  cords. 


COOKE. 

"  O  Soul !  these  are  the  trials  meet 
To  fit  thee  for  the  nobler  strife 
With  Evil  through  the  bounds  of  Life  : 

Pure  steel  is  from  the  furnace-heat. 

"  Shrink  not !  a  nobler  self  is  wrought 
From  out  the  shock,  more  grand  and  fair : 
March  on,  O  Heart !  through  toil  and  care 

The  grand  result  is  cheaply  bought !" 

n. 

I  hear  around  me  echoing  feet — 
The  din  of  cities,  never  still — 
The  clinking  purse  we  toil  to  fill — 

The  quick  accost  when  merchants  meet — • 

The  wagons  rattling  o'er  the  way — 
The  drayman  calling  to  his  horse — 
The  auctioneer,  with  utterance  hoarse 

Cry  in  yon  house  of  dusky  gray — 

The  clash  of  armed  minds,  aloof, 
Resounds  through  legislative  halls — 
The  indignant  echo  of  the  walls — 

The  nothingness  that  shakes  the  roof: 

And,  near  the  bustle  of  the  courts 
Where  Law's  condottieri  wage 
The  fight,  with  passion,  well-paid  rage ; 

Below,  the  ships  draw  toward  the  ports. 

From  all  I  turn  with  weary  heart 

To  that  green  mountain-land  of  thine, 
Where  tranquil  suns  unclouded  shine, 

And  to  the  abode  where  now  thou  art. 


496  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

m. 

The  deep  alarum  of  the  drum 
Resounds  in  yonder  busy  street, 
The  horses  move  on  restless  feet, 

And  every  urchin  cries,  "  They  come  !" 

With  which  the  trumpet  blares  aloud, 
And  brazen-throated  horns  reply : 
The  incense  of  the  melody 

Floats  upward  like  a  golden  cloud. 

And  like  the  boy's  my  soul  is  fired, 
And  half  I  grasp  the  empty  air, 
With  dreams  of  lists  and  ladies  fair, 

As  in  the  days  when  I  aspired. 

The  trumpet  dies,  a  distant  roar, 

The  drum  becomes  a  murmuring  voice ; 
No  more  in  battle  I  rejoice, 

But  fall  to  dreaming  as  before — 

Of  other  skies  and  greener  trees, 

And  mountain-peaks  of  purple  gloom — 
And  of  the  dim  and  shadowy  tomb, 

Where  that  great  spirit  rests  in  peace. 

iv.  *' 

The  sunset  died  that  tender  day, 

Across  the  mountains  bright  and  pure, 
And  bathed  with  golden  waves  the  shore 

Of  evening,  and  the  fringed  spray — 

And  stately  ships  which  glided  by, 
With  whitest  sails,  toward  the  dim 


CO  ORE.  497 

Untravelled  seas  beyond  the  rim 
Of  peaks  that  melted  in  the  sky.* 

He  sat  upon  the  trellised  porch, 
And  still  the  conversation  ranged 
From  olden  things  all  gone  or  changed, 

To  grand,  eternal  Truth — a  torch 

That  spread  around  a  steady  light, 

And  mocked  the  strength  of  hostile  hands, 
And  pointed  man  to  other  lands 

Of  hope  beyond  Thought's  farthest  flight. 

That  noble  forehead,  broad  and  calm, 
Was  flushed  with  evening's  holy  ray ; 
His  eye  gave  back  the  light  of  day — 

His  words  poured  out  a  soothing  balm  ; 

His  low  sweet  tones  fell  on  the  ear 

Like  music  in  the  quiet  watch 

Of  midnight,  when  the  spirits  catch 
At  golden  memories,  ever  dear. 

And  now  recalling  that  dim  eve, 

And  him  who  spake  those  noble  words, 
Though  trembling  still  in  all  its  chords, 

My  heart  is  calmed,  and  I  believe. 

v. 

I  thought  to  pass  away  from  earth 
And  join  thee,  with  that  other  heart 
Loved  even  more  than  thee,  a  part 

Of  other  worlds,  through  heavenlier  birth  — 


498  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Of  whom  I  do  not  speak  my  thought, 
So  dear  she  is,  because  the  eye 
O'erflows  with  woe,  and  with  a  cry 

I  tear  the  symbols  I  have  wrought. 

No  word  shall  be  of  that  one  grief, 
Because  it  lies  too  deep  for  words ; 
And  this  sad  trifling,  which  affords 

Some  respite,  could  be  no  relief. 

VI. 

Come  from  the  fields,  thy  dwelling-place, 
O  Spirit  of  the  Past !  and  steep 
My  wounded  soul  in  dreamy  sleep, 

And  fit  its  sandals  for  the  race 

Of  flashing,  harrying  life  ;  and  spread 
A  soft  oblivion  o'er  the  ills 
With  which  the  fainting  bosom  fills, 

And  calm  the  throbbing  heart  and  head : 

So  shall  I  gather  strength  again 

To  stem  the  tide  of  worldly  strife, 
To  bear  the  weariness  of  life, 

And  feel  that  all  things  are  not  vain. 


MRS.    EL  LETT.  499 


(Ilijabetl)  ffillett. 

THE     SEA-KINGS. 

"THEV  are  rightly  named  sea-kings,"  says  the  author  of  the  In- 
g/ingasaga,  "  who  never  seek  shelter  under  a  roof,  and  never  drain 
their  drinking-horn  at  a  cottage  fire." 

R  realm  is  mighty  Ocean, 
The  broad  and  sea-green  wave 
That  ever  hails  our  greeting  gaze — 

Our  dwelling-place  and  grave  ! 
For  us  the  paths  of  glory  lie 
Far  on  the  swelling  deep ; 
And,  brothers  to  the  Tempest, 
We  shrink  not  at  his  sweep  ! 

Our  music  is  the  Storm-blast 

In  fierceness  revelling  nigh, 
When  on  our  graven  bucklers  gleam 

His  lightnings  glancing  by.. 
Yet  most  the  flash  of  war-steel  keen 

Is  welcome  in  our  sight, 
When  flies  the  startled  foeman 

Before  our  falchions'  light. 

We  ask  no  peasant's  shelter, 

We  seek  no  noble's  bowers ; 
Yet  they  must  yield  us  tribute  meet, 

For  all  they  boast  is  ours. 
No  castled  prince  his  wide  domain 

Dares  from  our  yoke  to  free ; 
And,  like  mysterious  ODIN, 

We  rule  the  land  and  sea  ! 


500  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Rear  high  the  blood-red  banner ! 

Its  folds  in  triumph  wave — 
And  long  unsullied  may  it  stream 

The  standard  of  the  brave  ! 
Our  swords  outspeed  the  meteor's  glance  •. 

The  world  their  might  shall  know, 
So  long  as  heaven  shines  o'er  us, 

Or  ocean  rolls  below  ! 


3. 


THE     VAGABONDS. 

'1T7E  are  two  travellers,  ROGER  and  I. 

ROGER'S  my  dog.  —  Come  here,  you  scamp  ! 
Jump  for  the  gentlemen  —  mind  your  eye  ! 

Over  the  table  —  look  out  for  the  lamp  !  — 
The  rogue  is  growing  a  little  old  : 

Five  years  we've  tramped  through  wind  and  weather, 
And  slept  out-doors  when  nights  were  cold, 

And  ate  and  drank  —  and  starved  —  together. 

We've  learned  what  comfort  is,  I  tell  you  ! 

A  bed  on  the  floor,  a  bit  of  rosin, 
A  fire  to  thaw  our  thumbs  (poor  fellow  ! 

The  paw  he  holds  up  there's  been  frozen), 
Plenty  of  catgut  for  my  fiddle 

(This  out-door  business  is  bad  for  strings), 
Then  a  few  nice  buckwheats  hot  from  the  griddle, 

And  ROGER  and  I  set  up  for  kings  ! 


TROWBRIDGE.  «joi 

No,  thank  ye,  Sir — I  never  drink ; 

ROGER  and  I  are  exceedingly  moral — 
Aren't  we,  ROGER  ? — See  him  wink  ! — 

Well,  something  hot,  then — we  won't  quarrel. 
He's  thirsty,  too — see  him  nod  his  head  ? 

What  a  pity,  Sir,  that  dogs  can't  talk  ! 
He  understands  every  word  that's  said — 

And  he  knows  good  milk  from  water-and-chalk. 

The  truth  is,  Sir,  now  I  reflect, 

I've  been  so  sadly  given  to  grog, 
I  wonder  I've  not  lost  the  respect 

(Here's  to  you,  Sir !)  even  of  my  dog. 
But  he  sticks  by,  through  thick  and  thin ; 

And  this  old  coat,  with  its  empty  pockets, 
And  rags  that  smell  of  tobacco  and  gin, 

He'll  follow  while  he  has  eyes  in  his  sockets. 

There  isn't  another  creature  living 

Would  do  it,  and  prove,  through  every  disaster, 
So  fond,  so  faithful,  and  so  forgiving, 

To  such  a  miserable,  thankless  master ! 
No,  Sir ! — see  him  wag  his  tail,  and  grin  ! 

By  GEORGE  !  it  makes    my  old  eyes  water  ' 
That  is,  there's  something  in  this  gin 

That  chokes  a  fellow.     But  no  matter. 

We'll  have  some  music,  if  you're  willing, 

And  ROGER  here  (what  a  plague  a  cough  is,  Sir !) 

Shall  march  a  little. — Start,  you  villain  ! 

Paws  up  !     Eyes  front !     Salute  your  officer  ! 

'Bout  face  !     Attention  !     Take  your  rifle  ! 

(Some  dogs  have  arms,  you  see  !)     Now  hold  your 


502  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Cap  while  the  gentlemen  give  a  trifle, 
To  aid  a  poor  old  patriot  soldier ! 

March  !     Halt !     Now  show  how  the  Rebel  shakes, 

When  he  stands  up  to  hear  his  sentence. 
Now  tell  us  how  many  drams  it  takes 

To  honour  a  jolly  new  acquaintance. 
Five  yelps — that's  five  ;   he's  mighty  knowing  ! 

The  night's  before  us,  fill  the  glasses ! — 
Quick,  Sir  !      I'm  ill — my  brain  is  going  ! — 

Some  brandy — thank  you — there  ! — it  passes ! 

Why  not  reform  ?     That's  easily  said ; 

But  I've  gone  through  such  wretched  treatment, 
Sometimes  forgetting  the  taste  of  bread, 

And  scarce  remembering  what  meat  meant, 
That  my  poor  stomach's  past  reform  ; 

And  there  are  times  when,  mad  with  thinking, 
I'd  sell  out  heaven  for  something  warm 

To  prop  a  horrible  inward  sinking. 

Is  there  a  way  to  forget  to  think  ? 

At  your  age,  Sir,  home,  fortune,  friends, 
A  dear  girl's  love — but  I  took  to  drink ; — 

The  same  old  story ;  you  know  how  it  ends. 
If  you  could  have  seen  these  classic  features — 

You  needn't  laugh,  Sir ;  they  were  not  then 
Such  a  burning  libel  on  GOD'S  creatures  : 

I  was  one  of  your  handsome  men  ! 

If  you  had  seen  HER,  so  fair  and  young, 

Whose  head  was  happy  on  this  breast ! 
If  you  could  have  heard  the  songs  I  sung 

When  the  wine  went  round,  you  wouldn't  have  guessed 


TROWBRIDGE.  503 

That  ever  I,  Sir,  should  be  straying 

From  door  to  door,  with  fiddle  and  dog, 

Ragged  and  penniless,  and  playing 
To  you  to-night  for  a  glass  of  grog  ! 

She's  married  since — a  parson's  wife  : 

'Twas  better  for  her  that  we  should  part — 
Better  the  soberest,  prosiest  life 

Than  a  blasted  home  and  a  broken  heart. 
I  have  seen  her  ?     Once  :   I  was  weak  and  spent 

On  the  dusty  road  :  a  carriage  stopped  : 
But  little  she  dreamed,  as  on  she  went, 

Who  kissed  the  coin  that  her  fingers  dropped  ! 

You've  set  me  talking,  Sir ;   I'm  sorry  : 

It  makes  me  wild  to  think  of  the  change  ! 
What  do  you  care  for  a  beggar's  story  ? 

Is  it  amusing  ?  you  find  it  strange  ? 
I  had  a  mother  so  proud  of  me  ! 

'Twas  well  she  died  before Do  you  know 

If  the  happy  spirits  in  heaven  can  see 

The  ruin  and  wretchedness  here  below  ? 

Another  glass,  and  strong,  to  deaden 

This  pain ;   then  ROGER  and  I  will  start. 
I  wonder,  has  he  such  a  lumpish,  leaden, 

Aching  thing,  in  place  of  a  heart  ? 
He  is  sad  sometimes,  and  would  weep,  if  he  could, 

No  doubt,  remembering  things  that  were — 
A  virtuous  kennel,  with  plenty  of  food, 

And  himself  a  sober,  respectable  cur. 

I'm  better  now;   that  glass  was  warming. — 
You  rascal !  limber  your  lazy  feet ! 


504  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

We  must  be  fiddling  and  performing 

For  supper  and  bed,  or  starve  in  the  street. — 

Not  a  very  gay  life  to  lead,  you  think  ? 

But  soon  we  shall  go  where  lodgings  are  free, 

And  the  sleepers  need  neither  victuals  nor  drink  •- 
The  sooner,  the  better  for  ROGER  and  me. 


3.  <K.  Jjollanlr. 

THE    OLD     STORY     OF     BLUEBEARD. 
(FROM  "  BITTER-SWEET.") 

/CENTURIES  since,  there  flourished  a  man 
^*  (A  cruel  old  Tartar,  as  rich  as  the  Khan) 
Whose  castle  was  built  on  a  splendid  plan, 

With  gardens  and  groves  and  plantations ; 
But  his  shaggy  beard  was  as  blue  as  the  sky, 
And  he  lived  alone,  for  his  neighbours  were  shy, 
And  had  heard  hard  stories,  by-the-by, 

About  his  domestic  relations. 

Just  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  plain 

A  widow  abode,  with  her  daughters  twain ; 

And  one  of  them — neither  cross  nor  vain — 

Was  a  beautiful  little  treasure  : 
So  he  sent  them  an  invitation  to  tea — 
And,  having  a  natural  wish  to  see 
His  wonderful  castle  and  gardens,  all  three 

Said  they'd  do  themselves  the  pleasure. 


HOLLAND.  505 

As  soon  as  there  happened  a  pleasant  day, 
They  dressed  themselves  in  a  sumptuous  way, 
And  rode  to  the  castle  as  proud  and  gay 

As  silks  and  jewels  could  make  them ; 
And  they  were  received  in  the  finest  style, 
And  saw  every  thing  that  was  worth  their  while, 
In  the  halls  of  BLUEBEARD'S  grand  old  pile, 

Where  he  was  so  kind  as  to  take  them. 

The  ladies  were  all  enchanted  quite ; 
For  they  found  old  BLUEBEARD  so  polite, 
That  they  did  not  suffer  at  all  from  fright, 

And  frequently  called  thereafter. 
Then  he  offered  to  marry  the  younger  one — 
And,  as  she  was  willing,  the  thing  was  done, 
And  celebrated  by  all  the  ton 

With  feasting  and  with  laughter. 

As  kind  a  husband  as  ever  was  seen 

Was  BLUEBEARD  then,  for  a  month,  I  ween ; 

And  she  was  as  proud  as  any  queen, 

And  as  happy  as  she  could  be,  too. 
But  her  husband  called  her  to  him  one  day, 
And  said,  "  My  dear,  I  am  going  away; 
It  will  not  be  long  that  I  shall  stay ; 

There  is  business  for  me  to  see  to. 

"  The  keys  of  my  castle  I  leave  with  you ; 

But  if  you  value  my  love,  be  true, 

And  forbear  to  enter  the  Chamber  of  Blue  ! 

Farewell,  FATIMA  !  Remember  !" 
FATIMA  promised  him  ;  then  she  ran 
To  visit  the  rooms  with  her  sister  ANN; 


506  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

But  when  she  had  finished  the  tour,  she  began 
To  think  about  the  Blue  Chamber. 

Well,  the  woman  was  curiously  inclined, 
So  she  left  her  sister  and  prudence  behind 
(With  a  little  excuse),  and  started  to  find 

The  mystery  forbidden. 

She  paused  at  the  door ; — all  was  still  as  night ! 
She  opened  it :   then,  through  the  dim,  blue  light, 
There  blistered  her  vision  the  horrible  sight 

That  was  in  that  chamber  hidden  ! 

The  room  was  gloomy  and  damp  and  wide, 
And  the  floor  was  red  with  the  bloody  tide 
From  headless  women,  laid  side  by  side, 

The  wives  of  her  lord  and  master ! 
Frightened  and  fainting,  she  dropped  the  key, 
But  seized  it  and  lifted  it  quickly ;  then  she 
Hurried  as  swiftly  as  she  could  tiee 

From  the  scene  of  the  disaster. 

She  tried  to  forget  the  terrible  dead, 

But  shrieked  when  she  saw  that  the  key  was  red, 

And  sickened  and  shook  with  an  awful  dread 

When  she  heard  BLUEBEARD  was  coming ! 
He  did  not  appear  to  notice  her  pain ; 
But  he  took  his  keys,  and,  seeing  the  stain, 
He  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  refrain 

That  he  had  been  quietly  humming. 

"  Mighty  well,  madam  !"  said  he,  "  mighty  well ! 
What  does  this  little  blood-stain  tell  ? 
You've  broken  your  promise  :  prepare  to  dwell 
With  the  wives  I've  had  before  you  ! 


HO  LLAND.  507 

You've  broken  your  promise,  and  you  shall  die  !" 
Then  FATIMA,  supposing  her  death  was  nigh, 
Fell  on  her  knees  and  began  to  cry, 
"  Have  mercy,  I  implore  you  !" 

"No  !"  shouted  BLUEBEARD,  drawing  his  sword; 
"  You  shall  die  this  very  minute  !"  he  roared. 
tf  Grant  me  time  to  prepare  to  meet  my  LORD  !" 

The  terrified  woman  entreated. 
"  Only  ten  minutes !"  he  roared  again  ; 
And,  holding  his  watch  by  its  great  gold  chain, 
He  marked  on  the  dial  the  fatal  ten, 

And  retired  till  they  were  completed. 

"  Sister,  O  sister,  fly  up  to  the  tower  ! 
Look  for  release  from  this  murderer's  power  ! 
Our  brothers  should  be  here  this  very  hour — 

Speak  !     Does  there  come  assistance  ?" 
"No :  I  see  nothing  but  sheep  on  the  hill." 
"  Look  again,  sister  !" — "  I'm  looking  still, 
But  naught  can  I  see,  whether  good  or  ill, 

Save  a  flurry  of  dust  in  the  distance." 

"  Time's  up !"  shouted  BLUEBEARD,  out  from  his  room ; 
"  This  moment  shall  witness  your  terrible  doom, 
And  give  you  a  dwelling  within  the  room 

Whose  secrets  you  have  invaded." 
"  Comes  there  no  help  for  my  terrible  need  ?" 
"There  are  horsemen  twain  riding  hither  with  speed." 
"  Oh,  tell  them  to  ride  very  fast  indeed, 

Or  I  must  meet  death  unaided  !" 

"  Time's  fully  up — now  have  done  with  your  prayer  !" 
Shouted  BLUEBEARD,  swinging  his  sword  on  the  stair. 


508  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Then  he  entered,  and  grasping  her  beautiful  hair, 

Swung  his  glittering  weapon  around  him  ; 
But  a  loud  knock  rang  at  the  castle  gate, 
And  FATIMA  was  saved  from  her  horrible  fate, 
For,  shocked  with  surprise,  he  paused  too  late — 
And  then  the  two  soldiers  found  him. 

They  were  her  brothers — and  quick  as  they  knew 
What  the  fiend  was  doing,  their  swords  they  drew, 
And  attacked  him  fiercely,  and  ran  him  through, 

So  that  soon  he  was  mortally  wounded. 
With  a  wild  remorse  was  his  conscience  filled, 
When  he  thought  of  the  hapless  wives  he  had  killed ; 
But  quickly  the  last  of  his  blood  was  spilled, 

And  his  dying  groan  was  sounded. 

As  soon  as  FATIMA  recovered  from  fright, 
She  embraced  her  brothers  with  great  delight; 
And  they  were  as  glad  and  as  grateful  quite 

As  she  was  glad  and  grateful. 
Then  they  all  went  out  from  that  scene  of  pain, 
And  sought  in  quietude  to  regain 
Their  minds,  which  had  come  to  be  quite  insane, 

In  a  place  so  horrid  and  hateful. 

'Twas  a  private  funeral  BLUEBEARD  had ; 

For  the  people  knew  he  was  very  bad, 

And,  though  they  said  nothing,  they  all  were  glad 

For  the  fall  of  the  evil-doer ; 
But  FATIMA  first  ordered  some  graves  to  be  made, 
And  there  the  unfortunate  ladies  were  laid ; 
And  after  some  painful  months,  with  the  aid 

Of  her  friends,  her  spirits  came  to  her. 


S  TED  MAN.  509 

Then  she  cheered  the  hearts  of  the  suffering  poor, 
And  an  acre  of  land  around  each  door, 
And  a  cow  and  a  couple  of  sheep,  or  more, 

To  her  tenantry  she  granted. 
So  all  of  them  had  enough  to  eat, 
And  their  love  for  her  was  so  complete, 
They  would  kiss  the  dust  from  her  little  feet, 

Or  do  any  thing  she  wanted. 


(Sftmtmb  B.  Stefommt. 

THE     STRAWBERRY-PICKERS. 

(FROM  "ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.") 

I. 

>  I  HHE  strawberry-vines  lie  in  the  sun, 
•*•     Their  myriad  tendrils  twined  in  one ; 
Spread  like  a  carpet  of  richest  dyes, 
The  strawberry-field  in  sunshine  lies. 
Each  timorous  berry,  blushing  red, 
Has  folded  the  leaves  above  her  head, 
The  dark,  green  curtains  gemmed  with  dew ; 
But  each  blushful  berry,  peering  through, 

Shows  like  a  flock  of  the  underthread — 
The  crimson  woof  of  a  downy  cloth 
Where  the  elves  may  kneel  and  plight  their  troth. 

n. 

Run  through  the  rustling  vines,  to  show 
Each  picker  an  even  space  to  go, 


510  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Leaders  of  twinkling  cord  divide 
The  field  in  lanes  from  side  to  side; 
And  here  and  there,  with  patient  care, 
Lifting  the  leafage  everywhere, 
Rural  maidens  and  mothers  dot 
The  velvet  of  the  strawberry-plot : 
Fair  and  freckled,  old  and  young, 
With  baskets  at  their  girdles  hung, 
Searching  the  plants  with  no  rude  haste — 
Lest  berries  should  hang  unpicked,  and  waste, 
Of  the  pulpy,  odorous,  hidden  quest, 
First  gift  of  the  fruity  months,  and  best. 

in. 

Crates  of  the  laden  baskets  cool 

Under  the  trees  at  the  meadow's  edge, 
Covered  with  grass  and  dripping  sedge, 
And  lily-leaves  from  the  shaded  pool ; 
Filled,  and  ready  to  be  borne 
To  market  before  the  morrow  morn. 
Beside  them,  gazing  at  the  skies, 
Hour  after  hour  a  young  man  lies. 
From  the  hill-side,  under  the  trees, 
He  looks  across  the  field,  and  sees 
The  waves  that  ever  beyond  it  climb 
Whitening  the  rye-slope's  early  prime ; 
At  times  he  listens,  listlessly, 
To  the  tree-toad  singing  in  the  tree, 
Or  sees  the  cat-bird  peck  his  fill 
With  feathers  adroop  and  roguish  bill. 
But  often,  with  a  pleased  unrest, 
He  lifts  his  glances  to  the  west, 


S  TED  MAN.  511 

Watching  the  kirtles,  red  and  blue, 
Which  cross  the  meadow  in  his  view ; 
And  he  hears  anon  the  busy  throng 
Sing  the  Strawberry- Pickers'  Song: 

IV. 

"  Rifle  the  sweets  our  meadows  bear, 
Ere  the  day  has  reached  its  nooning : 

While  the  skies  are  fair,  and  the  morning  air 
Awakens  the  thrush's  tuning. 

Softly  the  rivulet's  ripples  flow ; 
Dark  is  the  grove  that  lovers  know ; 
Here,  where  the  whitest  blossoms  blow, 
The  reddest  and  ripest  berries  grow. 

"  Bend  to  the  crimson  fruit,  whose  stain 

Is  glowing  on  lips  and  fingers ; 
The  sun  has  lain  in  the  leafy  plain, 

And  the  dust  of  his  pinions  lingers. 

Softly  the  rivulet's  ripples  flow ; 
Dark  is  the  grove  that  lovers  know ; 
Here,  where  the  whitest  blossoms  blow, 
The  reddest  and  ripest  berries  grow. 

"  Gather  the  cones  which  lie  concealed, 

With  their  vines  your  foreheads  wreathing ; 

The  strawberry-field  its  sweets  shall  yield 
While  the  western  winds  are  breathing. 

Softly  the  rivulet's  ripples  flow ; 
Dark  is  the  grove  that  lovers  know : 
Here,  where  the  whitest  blossoms  blow, 
The  reddest  and  ripest  berries  grow." 


512  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

v. 

From  the  far  hill-side  comes  again 
An  echo  of  the  pickers'  strain. 
Sweetly  the  group  their  cadence  keep ; 
Swiftly  their  hands  the  trailers  sweep ; 
The  vines  are  stripped  and  the  song  is  sung, 
A  joyous  labour  for  old  and  young — 
For  the  blithe  children,  gleaning  behind 
The  women,  marvellous  treasures  find. 


VI. 

From  the  workers  a  maiden  parts : 
The  baskets  at  her  waistband  shine 

With  berries  that  look  like  bleeding  hearts 
Of  a  hundred  lovers  at  her  shrine ; 

No  Eastern  girl  were  girdled  so  well 

With  silken  belt  and  silvery  bell. 

Her  slender  form  is  tall  and  strong ; 

Her  voice  was  the  sweetest  in  the  song ; 

Her  brown  hair,  fit  to  wear  a  crown, 

Loose  from  its  bonnet  ripples  down. 

Toward  the  crates,  that  lie  in  the  shade 

Of  the  chestnut-copse  at  the  edge  of  the  glade, 

She  moves  from  her  mates,  through  happy  rows 

Of  the  children  loving  her  as  she  goes. 

"  ALICE,  our  ALICE  !"  one  and  all, 

Striving  to  stay  her  footsteps,  call 

(For  children,  with  skilful  choice,  dispense 

The  largesse  of  their  innocence)  ; 

But  on,  with  a  sister's  smile,  she  moves 

Into  the  darkness  of  the  groves, 


ANONYMOUS.  513 

And  deftly,  daintily,  one  by  one, 
Shelters  her  baskets  from  the  sun, 
Under  the  network,  fresh  and  cool, 
Of  lily-leaves  from  the  crystal  pool. 


THE     BIG     SHOE. 

(FROM  "MOTHER  GOOSE  FOR  GROWN  FOLKS.") 

"  There  was  an  old  woman 

Who  lived  in  a  shoe ; 
She  had  so  many  children, 

She  didn't  know  what  to  do  : 
To  some  she  gave  broth, 

And  to  some  she  gave  bread, 
And  some  she  whipped  soundly, 

And  sent  them  to  bed." 

you  find  out  the  likeness  ? 
A  portly  old  Dame,—- 
The  mother  of  millions, — 

BRITANNIA  by  name : 
And — howe'er  it  may  strike  you 

Tn  reading  the  song — 
Not  stinted  in  space 

For  bestowing  the  throng ; 
Since  the  Sun  can  himself 

Hardly  manage  to  go, 
In  a  day  and  a  night, 

From  the  heel  to  the  toe. 

On  the  arch  of  the  instep 
She  builds  up  her  throne, 


514  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

And,  with  seas  rolling  under, 
She  sits  there  alone ; 

With  her  heel  at  the  foot 
Of  the  Himmalehs  planted, 

And  her  toe  in  the  icebergs, 
Unchilled  and  undaunted. 

Yet  though  justly  of  all 

Her  fine  family  proud, 
'Tis  no  light  undertaking 

To  rule  such  a  crowd ; 
Not  to  mention  the  trouble 

Of  seeing  them  fed, 
And  dispensing  with  justice 

The  broth  and  the  bread. 

Some  will  seize  upon  one, — 

Some  are  left  with  the  other, — 
And  so  the  whole  household 

Gets  into  a  pother. 
But  the  rigid  old  Dame 

Has  a  summary  way 
Of  her  own,  when  she  finds 

There  is  mischief  to  pay  ! 

She  just  takes  up  the  rod, 

As  she  lays  down  the  spoon, 
And  makes  their  rebellious  backs 

Tingle  right  soon : 
Then  she  bids  them,  while  yet 

The  sore  smarting  they  feel, 
To  lie  down,  and  go  to  sleep, 

Under  her  heel ! 


ANONYMOUS.  515 

Only  once  was  she  posed, — 

When  the  little  boy  SAM, 
Who  had  always  before 

Been  as  meek  as  a  lamb, 
Refused  to  take  tea, 

As  his  mother  had  bid, 
And  returned  saucy  answers 

Because  he  was  chid. 

Not  content  even  then, 

He  cut  loose  from  the  throne, 
And  set  about  making 

A  shoe  of  his  own ; 
Which  succeeded  so  well, 

And  was  filled  up  so  fast, 
That  the  world,  in  amazement, 

Confessed,  at  the  last, — 
Looking  on  at  the  work 

With  a  gasp  and  a  stare, — 
That  'twas  hard  to  tell  which 

Would  be  best  of  the  pair. 

Side  by  side  they  are  standing 

Together  to-day ; 
Side  by  side  may  they  keep 

Their  strong  foothold  for  aye  ! — 
And  beneath  the  broad  sea, 

Whose  blue  depths  intervene, 
May  the  finishing  string 

Lie  unbroken  between  ! 


516  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 


JACK     HORNER. 

"  Little  JACK  HORNER 

Sat  in  a  corner, 
Eating  a  Christmas  Pie  : 

He  put  in  his  thumb, 

And  pulled  out  a  plum, 
And  said,  '  What  a  great  boy  am  I !' " 

A  H,  the  world  hath  many  a  HORNER, 

Who,  seated  in  his  corner, 
Finds  a  Christmas  Pie  provided  for  his  thumb  : 
And  cries  out  with  exultation, 
When  successful  exploration 
Doth  discover  the  predestinated  plum  ! 

Little  JACK  outgrows  his  tire, 

And  becometh  JOHN,  Esquire ; 
And  he  finds  a  monstrous  pasty  ready  made, 

Stuffed  with  notes  and  bonds  and  bales 

With  invoices  and  sales, 
And  all  the  mixed  ingredients  of  Trade. 

And  again  it  is  his  luck 

To  be  just  in  time  to  pluck, 
By  a  clever  "  operation,"  from  the  pie 

An  unexpected  "  plum ;" 

So  he  glorifies  his  thumb, 
And  says,  proudly,  "  What  a  mighty  man  am  I !" 

Or  perchance,  to  Science  turning, 
And  with  weary  labour  learning 
All  the  formulas  and  phrases  that  oppress  her, — 


ANONYMOUS.  517 

For  the  fruit  of  others'  baking, 
So  a  fresh  diploma  taking, 
Comes  he  forth,  a  full  accredited  Professor ! 

Or  he's  not  too  nice  to  mix 

In  the  dish  of  politics ; 
And  the  dignity  of  office  he  puts  on : 

And  he  feels  as  big  again 

As  a  dozen  nobler  men, 
While  he  writes  himself  the  "  Honourable  JOHN  !" 

Nay,  he  need  not  quite  despair 

Of  the  Presidential  chair  : 
The  thing  is  not  unlikely  to  be  done ; 

Since  a  party  puppet  now 

May  wear  boldly  on  its  brow 
The  glory  that  a  WEBSTER  never  won ! 

Not  to  hint  at  female  HORNERS, 

Who,  in  their  exclusive  corners, 
Think  the  world  is  only  made  of  upper  crust ; 

And  in  the  funny  pie 

That  we  call  Society, 
Their  dainty  fingers  delicately  thrust — 

Till  it  sometimes  comes  to  pass, 

In  the  spiced  and  sugared  mass, 
One  may  compass  (don't  they  call  it  so  ?)  a  catch ; 

And  the  gratulation  given 

Seems  as  if  the  very  heaven 
Had  outdone  itself  in  making  such  a  match ! 

Oh,  the  World  keeps  Christmas  Day 
In  a  queer,  perpetual  way ; 
Shouting  always,  "  What  a  great,  big  Boy  am  I !" 


518  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Yet  how  many  of  the  crowd, 

Thus  vociferating  loud, 
And  its  accidental  honours  lifting  high, 

Have  really,  more  than  JACK, 

With  all  their  lucky  knack, 
Had  a  finger  in  the  making  of  the  Pie  ? 


(EMtl)  fltan. 

THE     COLOURING     OF     HAPPINESS. 

"IV/TY  heart  is  full  of  prayer  and  praise  to-day, 
•*•**•   So  beautiful  the  whole  world  seems  to  me  ! 
I  know  the  morn  has  dawned  as  is  its  wontr 
I  know  the  breeze  comes  on  no  lighter  wing, 
I  know  the  brook  chimed  yesterday  that  same 
Melodious  call  to  my  unanswering  thought ; 
But  I  look  forth  with  new-created  eyes, 
And  soul  and  sense  seem  linked  and  thrill  alike, 
And  things  familiar  have  unusual  grown, 
Taking  my  spirit  with  a  fair  surprise  ! 
But  yesterday,  and  life  seemed  tented  round 
With  idle  sadness.     Not  a  bird  sang  out 
But  with  a  mournful  meaning ;  not  a  cloud — 
And  there  were  many — but  in  flitting  past 
Trailed  somewhat  of  its  darkness  o'er  my  heart, 
And  loitering,  half  becalmed,  unfreighted  all, 
Went  by  the  Heaven-bound  hours. 

But,  oh  !  to-day 
Lie  all  harmonious  and  lovely  things 


EDITH   MA  Y.  519 

Close  to  my  spirit,  and  a  while  it  seems 

As  if  the  blue  sky  were  enough  of  heaven ! 

My  thoughts  are  like  tense  chords  that  give  their  music 

At  a  chance  breath ;  a  thousand  delicate  hands 

Are  harping  on  my  soul !   no  sight,  no  sound, 

But  stirs  me  to  the  keenest  sense  of  pleasure, — 

Be  it  no  more  than  the  wind's  cautious  tread, 

The  swaying  of  a  shadow,  or  a  bough, 

Or  a  dove's  flight  across  the  silent  sky. 

Oh,  in  this  sun-bright  Sabbath  of  the  heart, 
How  many  a  prayer  puts  on  the  guise  of  thought, 
An  angel  unconfessed  !      Its  rapid  feet, 
That  leave  no  print  on  Memory's  sands,  tread  not 
Less  surely  their  bright  path  than  choral  hymns 
And  litanies.      I  know  the  praise  of  worlds, 
And  the  souPs  unvoiced  homage,  both  arise 
Distinctly  to  His  ear  who  holds  all  Nature 
Pavilioned  by  His  presence ;  who  has  fashioned 
With  an  impartial  care,  alike  the  star 
That  keeps  unpiloted  its  airy  circle, 
And  the  sun-quickened  germ,  or  the  poor  moss 
The  building  swallow  plucks  to  line  her  nest. 


SUMMER. 

'  I  *HE  early  Spring  hath  gone ;   I  see  her  stand 
•*•     Afar  off  on  the  hills — white  clouds,  like  doves, 
Yoked  by  the  South-wind  to  her  opal  car, 
And  at  her  feet  a  lion  and  a  lamb 
Couched,  side  by  side.     Irresolute  Spring  hath  gone  ! 


520  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

And  Summer  comes  like  PSYCHE,  zephyr-borne 
To  her  sweet  land  of  pleasures. 

She  is  here  ! 

Amid  the  distant  vales  she  tarried  long, 
But  she  hath  come,  oh  joy  ! — for  I  have  heard 
Her  many-chorded  harp  the  livelong  day, 
Sounding  from  plains  and  meadows,  where,  of  late, 
Rattled  the  hail's  sharp  arrows,  and  where  came 
The  wild  North-wind,  careering  like  a  steed 
Unconscious  of  the  rein.     She  hath  gone  forth 
Into  the  forest,  and  its  poised  leaves 
Are  platformed  for  the  Zephyr's  dancing  feet. 
Under  its  green  pavilions  she  hath  reared 
Most  beautiful  things ;  the  Spring's  pale  orphans  lie 
Sheltered  upon  her  breast ;  the  bird's  loud  song 
At  morn  outsoars  his  pinion ;  and  when  waves 
Put  on  Night's  silver  harness,  the  still  air 
Is  musical  with  soft  tones.     She  hath  baptized 
Earth  with  her  joyful  weeping.     She  hath  blessed 
All  that  do  rest  beneath  the  wing  of  Heaven, 
And  all  that  hail  its  smile.      Her  ministry 
Is  typical  of  love.      She  hath  disdained 
No  gentle  office,  but  doth  bend  to  twine 
The  grape's  light  tendrils,  and  to  pluck  apart 
The  heart-leaves  of  the  rose.     She  doth  not  pass 
Unmindful  the  bruised  vine,  nor  scorn  to  lift 
The  trodden  weed ;  and  when  her  lowlier  children 
Faint  by  the  wayside  like  worn  passengers, 
She  is  a  gentle  mother,  all  night  long 
Bathing  their  pale  brows  with  her  healing  dews. 
The  Hours  are  spendthrifts  of  her  wealth ;   the  Days 
Are  dowered  with  her  beauty. 


BALLARD. 

Jronk  ID. 

LITTLE      MAY. 

CjHE  is  not  dead, 
^     But  sleeps; 
Beside  her  cradle-bed 
My  memory  keeps 
The  vigil  sad. 

Awake,  my  child, 

Awake ! 

'Tis  long  since  thou  hast  smiled 
My  heart  will  break, 

Unless  beguiled ! 

No  voice  replies, — 

Those  lips 

Naught  echo  to  my  cries ; 
In  life's  eclipse 

She  silent  lies. 

That  brow  so  cold — 

Those  eyes 

No  more  my  face  behold ; — 
Alas !  she  lies 

Within  Death's  fold. 

She  dwells  with  GOD; — 

Her  feet, 

With  heavenly  sandals  shod, 
Traverse  the  street 

By  angels  trod. 


521 


522  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Then  let  her  sleep ; 

Her  dreams 

Are  bliss.     Dear  Saviour,  keep, 
Near  Eden's  streams, 

The  lamb  we  weep. 


THE      PRAIRIE      GRAVE. 

>"ir<HE  summer  flowers,  above  her  breast, 

•*•       Bud,  bloom,  and  fade  away ; 
The  winter  snow-flakes  lightly  rest 
Upon  that  lifeless  clay. 

No  heedless  footstep  may  invade 

That  holy  hill-side  plot ; 
A  rustic  paling,  rudely  made, 

Protects  the  lonely  spot. 

No  father,  mother,  sister  near, 

Her  prairie  bed  to  share ; 
Or  moisten,  with  the  falling  tear, 

The  wild-flowers  growing  there. 

She  sleeps,  in  silence  and  alone, 

No  guardian  angel  seen — 
For  GOD'S  own  hand  hath  sealed  the  stone 

Above  that  grave  so  green. 

So  shall  she  sweetly,  safely  sleep 

Among  the  prairie  flowers ; 
While  we  this  grateful  memory  keep — 

"  One  little  bud  is  ours." 


MRS.    STOWE.  523 


fijarviet 

"ONLY    A    YEA  R."  * 

NE  year  ago,  —  a  ringing  voice, 
A  clear  blue  eye, 
And  clustering  curls  of  sunny  hair, 
Too  fair  to  die. 

Only  a  year,  —  no  voice,  no  smile, 

No  glance  of  eye, 
No  clustering  curls  of  golden  hair, 

Fair  but  to  die. 

One  year  ago,  —  what  loves,  what  schemes 

Far  into  life  ! 
What  joyous  hopes,  what  high  resolves, 

What  generous  strife  ! 

The  silent  picture  on  the  wall, 

The  burial-stone,  — 
Of  all  that  beauty,  life,  and  joy, 

Remain  alone  ! 

One  year,  —  one  year,  —  one  little  year, 

And  so  much  gone  ! 
And  yet  the  even  flow  of  life 

Moves  calmly  on. 


*  These  lines  refer  to  the  death,  July  9,  1857,  of  a  son,  a  student 
of  Dartmouth  College,  who  went  with  some  classmates  to  the  Con- 
necticut River  to  bathe,  got  beyond  his  depth,  and  was  drowned. 


524  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

The  grave  grows  green,  the  flowers  bloom  fair, 

Above  that  head; 
No  sorrowing  tint  of  leaf  or  spray 

Says  he  is  dead. 

No  pause  or  hush  of  merry  birds 

That  sing  above, 
Tells  us  how  coldly  sleeps  below 

The  form  we  love. 

Where  hast  thou  been  this  year,  beloved  ? 

What  hast  thou  seen  ? 
What  visions  fair,  what  glorious  life, 

Where  thou  hast  been  ? 

The  veil !  the  veil ! — so  thin,  so  strong, 

'Twixt  us  and  thee  ! — 
The  mystic  veil !  when  shall  it  fall, 

That  we  may  see  ? 

Not  dead,  not  sleeping,  not  even  gone ; 

But  present  still, 
And  waiting  for  the  coming  hour 

Of  GOD'S  sweet  will. 

LORD  of  the  living  and  the  dead, 

Our  Saviour  dear, 
We  lay  in  silence  at  Thy  feet 

This  sad,  sad  year  ! 


MES.    DINNIES.  525 


EHnnie0. 


TO     MY     HUSBANDS     FIRST     GRAY     HAIR. 

"  I  know  thee  not, — I  loathe  thy  race  ; 
But  in  thy  lineaments  I  trace 
What  time  shall  strengthen,  not  efface." 

Giaour. 

'  I  ^HOU  strange,  unbidden  guest !  from  whence 

•*•      Thus  early  hast  thou  come  ? 
And  wherefore  ?     Rude  intruder,  hence  ! 

And  seek  some  fitter  home ; 
These  rich  young  locks  are  all  too  dear, — 
Indeed,  thou  must  not  linger  here  ! 

Go — take  thy  sober  aspect  where 

The  youthful  cheek  is  fading, 
Or  find  some  furrowed  brow,  which  Care 

And  Passion  have  been  shading; 
And  add  thy  sad,  malignant  trace 
To  mar  the  aged  or  anguished  face  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  go  ?     Then  answer  me, 

And  tell  what  brought  thee  here! 
Not  one  of  all  thy  tribe  I  see 

Beside  thyself  appear, 

And  through  these  bright  and  clustering  curls 
Thou  shinest,  a  tiny  thread  of  pearls. 

Thou  art  a  moralist  ?     Ah,  well ! 

And  comest  from  Wisdom's  land, 
A  few  sage  axioms  just  to  tell  ? 

Well !  well !   I  understand  :— 


526  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

Old  Truth  has  sent  thee  here  to  bear 
The  maxims  which  we  fain  must  hear. 

And  now,  as  I  observe  thee  nearer, 
Thou'rt  pretty — very  pretty — quite 

As  glossy  and  as  fair — nay,  fairer — 
Than  these,  but  not  so  bright ; 

And  since  thou  came  Truth's  messenger, 

Thou  shalt  remain,  and  speak  of  her. 

She  says  thou  art  a  herald,  sent 

In  kind  and  friendly  warning, 
To  mix  with  locks  by  Beauty  blent 

(The  fair  young  brow  adorning), 
And  midst  their  wild  luxuriance  taught 
To  show  thyself,  and  waken  thought — ' 

That  thought,  which  to  the  dreamer  preaches 

A  lesson  stern  as  true, 
That  all  things  pass  away,  and  teaches 

How  youth  must  vanish  too  ! 
And  thou  wert  sent  to  rouse  anew 
This  thought,  whene'er  thou  meet'st  the  view. 

And  comes  there  not  a  whispering  sound — 
A  low,  faint,  murmuring  breath, 

Which,  as  thou  movest,  floats  around 
Like  echoes  in  their  death  ? — 

"  Time  onward  sweeps,  youth  flies,  prepare  /" 

Such  is  thine  errand,  First  Gray  Hair. 


ROSE    TERRY.  527 


THE     FISHING-SONG. 

H\OWN  in  the  wide  gray  river, 
~^~>^   The  current  is  sweeping  strong; 
Over  the  wide  gray  river 
Floats  the  fisherman's  song. 

The  oar-stroke  times  the  singing, 
The  song  falls  with  the  oar; 

And  an  echo  in  both  is  ringing 
I  thought  to  hear  no  more. 

Out  of  a  deeper  current 

The  song  brings  back  to  me 

A  cry  from  mortal  silence 
Of  mortal  agony. 

Life  that  was  spent  and  vanished, 
Love  that  had  died  of  wrong, 

Hearts  that  are  dead  in  living, 

Come  back  in  the  fisherman's  song. 

I  see  the  maples  leafing, 
Just  as  they  leafed  before  ; 

The  green  grass  comes  no  greener 
Down  to  the  very  shore  — 

With  the  rude  strain  swelling,  sinking, 
In  the  cadence  of  days  gone  by, 

As  the  oar,  from  the  water  drinking, 
Ripples  the  mirrored  sky. 

Yet  the  soul  hath  life  diviner; 
Its  past  returns  no  more, 


528  GOLDEN  LEAVES. 

But  in  echoes,  that  answer  the  minor 
Of  the  boat-song,  from  the  shore. 

And  the  ways  of  GOD  are  darkness ; 

His  judgment  waiteth  long ; 
He  breaks  the  heart  of  a  woman 

With  a  fisherman's  careless  song. 


REVE     DU     MIDI. 

"1T7HEN  o'er  the  mountain  steeps 

The  hazy  noontide  creeps, 
And  the  shrill  cricket  sleeps 

Under  the  grass ; 
When  soft  the  shadows  lie, 
And  clouds  sail  o'er  the  sky, 
And  the  idle  winds  go  by, 
With  the  heavy  scent  of  blossoms  as  they  pass — 

Then,  when  the  silent  stream 
Lapses  as  in  a  dream, 
And  the  water-lilies  gleam 

Up  to  the  sun ; 

When  the  hot  and  burdened  day 
Rests  on  its  downward  way, 
When  the  moth  forgets  to  play, 
And  the  plodding  ant  may  dream  her  work  is  done — 

Then,  from  the  noise  of  war 
And  the  din  of  earth  afar, 
Like  some  forgotten  star 

Dropped  from  the  sky — 
The  sounds  of  love  and  fear, 
All  voices  sad  and  clear, 


BENEDICT.  529 

Banished  to  silence  drear — 
The  willing  thrall  of  trances  sweet  I  lie. 

Some  melancholy  gale 
Breathes  its  mysterious  tale, 
Till  the  Rose's  lips  grow  pale 

With  her  sighs ; 
And  o'er  my  thoughts  are  cast 
Tints  of  the  vanished  past, 
Glories  that  faded  fast, 
Renewed  to  splendour  in  my  dreaming  eyes. 

As,  poised  on  vibrant  wings, 
Where  its  sweet  treasure  swings, 
The  honey-lover  clings 

To  the  red  flowers — 
So,  lost  in  vivid  light, 
So,  rapt  from  day  and  night, 
I  linger  in  delight, 
Enraptured  o'er  the  vision-freighted  hours. 


JFrcmk  £e*  Benedict. 


A     PICTURE. 

(FROM  "THE  SHADOW-  WORSHIPPER.") 
ARNOLD,  pausing  on  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

\     GOODLY  scene  !     The  valley  fair  outstretched 
•*••*"  In  many  a  wild  and  picturesque  change 
Below  the  towering  peaks  that  lock  it  in, 
Like  offerings  flung  beneath  a  tyrant's  feet. 
The  hazy  river  winds  its  mist  between, 
A  bright  isle  dancing  on  its  passive  heave, 


530  G  OLDEN  LEAVES. 

Like  some  enchanted  thing  that's  wandered  far, 

And  lost  from  Eastern  realms  in  this  bleak  clime. 

Great  belts  of  trees  shut  out  the  restless  world 

Beyond  that  mount  which  rises  proudly  up 

With  a  stern  grandeur  in  its  regal  mien, 

As  if  it  kept  the  lesser  crags  in  awe, 

And  made  that  vale  its  own  sweet  paramour. 

Dim  groves  where  Indian  maidens  dreamed  of  yore, 

And  pastures  with  the  scent  of  clover  there, 

And  hamlets  nestled  in  and  out  like  doves, 

Make  up  a  scene  that's  like  Arcadia. 

This  haunt  hath  been  for  Dryads  in  old  time, 

And  Fauns  have  danced  within  these  woodland  bowers. 

E'en  Heaven  itself  bends  near  this  greenwood  dell, 

That  seems  as  if  it  had  been  hollowed  out 

To  make  a  cup  for  PAN.      Here  should  be  calm ; 

And  here  methinks  this  weary  heart  might  rest, 

If  but  the  valley  clods  lay  over  it. 

Ah,  happy  child,  that  this  has  been  thy  home  ! 

No  marvel  if  such  purity's  within, 

For  this,  thy  dwelling-place,  is  near  to  Heaven. 

Men  here  should  have  no  petty  thoughts  and  aims, 

Like  pent-up  dwellers  of  great  towns  below ; 

Their  souls  should  catch  a  hue  from  this  fair  spot, 

And  swell  with  greatness  far  beyond  their  clay. 


IN     MEMORIAM. 

E  Autumn's  latest  leaves  are  gone, 
Its  richest  glories  dead, 
And  hopes  more  bright  than  Autumn  skies 
Have  with  that  parting  fled. 


BENEDICT.  531 

The  gayest  heart  that  treasured  life, 

The  voice  of  truest  glee — 
Of  all  the  friends  that  Death  might  claim, 

I  had  not  singled  thee  ! 

We  parted  in  the  Summer  time, 

When  life  was  bold  and  brave — 
I  did  not  think  the  Autumn  leaves 

Would  rustle  o'er  thy  grave ; 
A  year  ago  we  two  had  watched 

Their  gorgeous  brightness  fall — 
I  little  dreamed  that  those  of  Spring 

Were  woven  for  thy  pall. 

I  stand  within  the  darkened  home 

Thy  presence  filled  with  mirth, 
And  mutely  watch  the  broken  band 

Around  thy  father's  hearth. 
I  listen  for  thy  coming  step, 

And,  cheated  by  each  sound, 
Look  sadly  on  thy  household  gifts 

That  still  are  grouped  around. 

The  very  chair  where  thou  hast  sat 

Recalls  thy  face  to  mind, 
And  not  the  simplest  act  of  yore 

But  hath  a  spell  to  bind. 
The  rustic  bird-cage  for  the  wrens, 

The  trellis  for  the  vine, 
The  little  plot  of  Autumn  flowers, 

And  spray  of  mountain  pine — 

The  treasured  books  thy  hand  hath  touched, 

The  drawings  on  the  wall, 
They  speak  with  voice  articulate — 

A  memory  in  all ! 


532  GOLDEN   LEAVES. 

The  old  familiar  room  is  changed — 
The  sun  has  ceased  to  play 

So  brightly  on  the  garden  porch, 
Since  thou  art  gone  away  ! 

And  yet  I  would  not  call  thee  back, 

To  cull  youth's  short-lived  flowers, 
For  souls  like  thine  are  first  to  leave 

This  dreary  world  of  ours. 
A  brighter  sky  bends  o'er  thy  way 

Beyond  this  earthly  gloom, 
And  fadeless  light  around  thee  falls 

Where  Eden's  roses  bloom. 

There,  aspirations  checked  below, 

To  fuller  life  have  sprung, 
Unfettered  by  the  thralling  weight 

That  here  around  them  clung. 
The  glowing  hopes  that  duty  stilled, 

The  dreams  of  holy  light, 
These  too  have  found  a  higher  aim 

Beyond  our  earthly  night. 

But  yet  these  human  hearts  will  ache 

And  throb  with  yearning  pain, 
And  blindly  toward  thine  upper  life 

Our  spirits  reach  in  vain. 
Amid  the  gloom  of  worldly  mists 

Our  erring  footsteps  roam ; 
But  thou,  more  pure  and  blest  than  we, 

Wert  first  to  reach  thy  home. 


THE    END. 


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